


The Penitent

by FluffyPaws



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Anxiety, Bisexual Characters, Character Development, Gay Characters, Innuendo, Lesbian Characters, Multi, Thalmor, all the main characters are on the autism spectrum, being dragonborn and thalmor at the same time is kind of hard, loads and loads of religious guilt with unfortunate consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-05-02 23:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 93,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5268275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FluffyPaws/pseuds/FluffyPaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It began with a mistake at a Talos shrine and a confession of heresy. A Breton leaves Markarth under the wings and will of the Thalmor. Her days at the forge and keep left behind, her new purpose is to aid a suspended Thalmor guardsmer, who awaits his return to service but struggles under the revelation that he is Dragonborn. Sequel to Eight Days in Markarth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Honored First Emissary Elenwen,_

_As we leave Sun's Height and enter the month of Last Seed, the blessed warmth of Magnus enjoyed by our kin so far away begins to creep from this cold and forbidding northern land. And you are certainly expecting my report._

_The state of Markarth has been somewhat tumultuous, with a great deal of activity involving the most prominent Nord clan of the Reach, the Silver-Bloods. Continued monitoring of the Silver-Bloods has again confirmed our suspicions that they do indeed hold the Markarth city guard in their pocket. The extent of their influence over the Jarl has become of increasing concern to me during these past days._

_But by chance, the Silver-Bloods have temporarily lost control of the city's silver mines. Their stock of Forsworn prisoners has killed Thonar Silver-Blood and a number of city guards and fled into the hills. While Thonar Silver-Blood was indeed the Nord managing the prison, I have little doubt his widow and brother will attempt to see the operation revived._

_Thongvor continues to spread Stormcloak sentiment. I regret that I lack the power to check this threat against the city, and that his eye has become irritatingly fixed on me in these recent days._

_However, his frustration brings me to the next matter._

_It is my duty to report that in the middle of Sun's Height, I discovered a Breton citizen who had drawn the attention of the guards and by extension, the Silver-Bloods. In order to keep her out of reach, I took her into custody under suspicion of Talos worship. This vexed the Silver-Bloods and guards, who made an attempt on the lives of her, a justiciar, and my Khajiiti servant over the course of eight days. But it is owed in part to this Breton that I have obtained valuable evidence against the Silver-Bloods, which I believe will benefit us._

_As you will see in the enclosed documents, the aforementioned Breton has confessed to four counts of casual Talos heresy. She is also a werewolf and has escaped confinement in the barracks twice, loyal as she proved to be afterward. Perhaps out of gratitude, she did willingly sign her confession, repent, and take her place as a subject of Alinor. In light of her cooperation, assistance, and respect for the Thalmor and Aldmeri Dominion, I have elected to grant mercy and the fullest protections I can bestow, while taking her under my wing as my servant. She does not take this kindness lightly, and is now studying our ways and protocol in hopes of serving well._

_There is also the matter of that justiciar I mentioned. There was an accident at the shrine of Talos; it seems our justiciar is something the Nords call Dragonborn. He was arrested as a flight risk and kept in the barracks until the shock waned. He possesses the power to wield his voice as a weapon, not unlike Ulfric Stormcloak as you are surely aware, and may be a gift to the Thalmor in the future if he continues to serve us. While I have suspended him from official service, pending your decision, I have no doubts regarding his loyalty. He willingly remains under my command._

_Finally, there is the matter of the Khajiit. He was arrested on a false murder charge and thrown into Cidhna Mine, but escaped out of loyalty and dire need. He returned to me while gaining life-threatening injuries, and shared a role in moving evidence to my hands. The Khajiit lives, but his usefulness in Markarth has come to a temporary end._

_I have been forced to remove these three – the Breton, the justiciar, and the Khajiit – from Markarth, for they have drawn the ire of the Silver-Bloods. They seem to believe that my servants played a part in the death of Thonar, the loss of their prisoners, and the damage to their operations. Though it shames me, the Silver-Bloods in their loss have grown angry and bold, and I could not ensure the safety of my servants if they remained in the Reach. They have been instructed to await orders in another hold, and are of course ready to be recalled at a moment's notice._

_Last Seed may well be spent on damage control. The Silver-Bloods have redirected their anger toward me and the Thalmor, and I fear they have the ears of the Jarl now. I will take responsibility should this complicate matters with the Empire, but I do not believe it will come to that._

_With the evidence I now possess, I may be able to remind the Jarl that he is beholden to his Empire and its laws, including those banning slavery. The crimes of the Silver-Bloods cannot be ignored if he considers himself a Nord worthy of his throne. Whether I shall find myself arguing on behalf of the Forsworn, I cannot say. I admit, that I might at last witness the downfall of the Silver-Blood clan excites me. Such a blow would end their sway over the Jarl and surviving guard, and bring the hold more in line with Imperial and Thalmor interests._

_In the meantime, I send you the arrest reports and updated records regarding the Breton, justiciar, and Khajiit, with a humble request. It is my sincere hope that you will see them as useful, loyal, and worthy of life. I ask you to look upon them and their deeds with mercy, as I have, that they might prove themselves and be allowed to live as valuable assets, or at the very least grateful servants to the Dominion._

_I await your decision, and stand ready to recall them to Markarth at your command._

_I am ever your loyal arm and eye,_

_Ondolemar, Commander, Markarth_

…

…

…

_Ondolemar,_

_Your soft heart and fondness for pets are testing my patience._

_Nothing in your report justifies prioritizing the life of a human over our progress in Markarth. Not even evidence we would have uncovered soon enough without interference. I hope for your sake that you truly have gained the advantage we needed to remove the Silver-Bloods from power._

_Furthermore, I have half a mind to see you recalled to Alinor for releasing a Nordic legend into the wilds of Skyrim in the middle of a civil war. Your failure to disclose his location does not speak well of his supposed loyalty, let alone yours._

_Let them run, and pray I do not find the resources to pursue them. I will give you another chance. I await a more satisfactory explanation for your weakness._

_Elenwen, First Emissary_


	2. First Light

Rachel woke up from her first restful sleep in over two weeks. She expected, for a few seconds, to roll over and see stone and dwarven pipes. Or a dawn sky. Or – she winced as she remembered that inn in the Reach – a ghost mistaking one of her companions for Tiber Septim. The wooden ceiling of the Bannered Mare was there instead.

The inn room they'd rented long term was smaller than that haunted one at Old Hroldan, but enough. They had a wardrobe, a small round table, and a couple of chairs, all somehow arranged to fit comfortably around the bed in that little space of a room. A small chest of drawers worked as a second table, if they needed it. And the size of the bed, apparently built for two or three Nords to share in the winter, made up for it being the only one in the room.

It wouldn't be night much longer, if the pale light through the windows meant anything. She carefully sat up, slowly so she wouldn't disturb the others. Ren'dar slept quietly next to her. One striped arm was draped over his chest, across streaks of fine, new russet fur growth. On his other side, Kynril snored with his back to them, white hair and gold-brown shoulders almost glowing in what little sunlight they had.

If somebody had told her, back at the beginning of Sun's Height, that soon she'd share an inn room with a Thalmor spy and justiciar, she wouldn't have believed them. Then the idea would have stuck in her mind for a while because it was a _bad_ idea and her mind, as luck had it, seemed to like hanging onto those.

If someone had told her she'd give up being a citizen of Skyrim for Alinor in a crisis, she would have been a little more inclined to believe that. Markarth was not the best place for Bretons. Particularly not Reachmen. And there was not much to leave behind in Markarth; she had no family left there except perhaps a blacksmith, who'd taken her in as her apprentice years ago.

But the circumstances of choosing Alinor had been a little harder to believe, and she was not sure she could believe them.

She did not want to dwell on those circumstances. Her mind was prepared for this, and distracted her with new thoughts. Everyone in Whiterun is going to learn you're a Reachman, said her mind, and a werewolf and a traitor to Skyrim. Then Akatosh himself will stop time so you can sit in your shame and misery forever.

Or, her anxious mind continued, maybe now you could run off and hide in another hold and never worry about Alinor or the Thalmor again. If you were so inclined. Well? Why not?

She looked at the Khajiit and Altmer again. Ren'dar had talked to her about running weeks ago. He had been apologetic for dragging her into Thalmor business to begin with. And he had gone out of his way to help her. Something like that could have been said for Kynril, when he wasn't being an annoying mudcrab.

She felt the steel amulet under her neck and ran her finger over the smooth magic-carved inscriptions. The chalice and the bear trap. The subtle but very present trace of Ondolemar's magicka lingering on the metal.

However she felt about the two next to her, she feared, it wasn't as if she had any choice but to stay.

What was the hour, she wondered as she yawned. It was still faint, the light that came through the cloudy window panes. Maybe, if those two were still fast asleep, it wouldn't hurt for her to close her eyes again....


	3. Preparations

“Ah! The human stirs!”

The sun _had_ to be up, or so she guessed from the soft warm glow in the room and the muffled chatter of the hall below. Ren'dar, already dressed in his preferred simple breeches and tunic, was seated at the table, inspecting his claws.

“The tea is still warm,” he said. “And look! You get sweet rolls for breakfast! Help yourself. Ren'dar has had his fill.”

Rachel pulled on her robes and looked around the little room. Kynril was already out.

“He's gone to Dragonsreach,” Ren'dar explained before she could ask. “This city and dragons have a history, or so he has heard. Not a bad place for him to start researching the meaning of being Dragonborn.”

Rachel took the other chair and picked up one of the rolls, and wondered if her time in Whiterun was going to be just like the barracks in Markarth. “So what are we going to do?”

“Well, before you woke up, the elf said, 'I never had servants in my entire life. Do whatever you like.' But this one thinks he has also never stayed in an inn for more than one night. So, later we'll do some chores for the innkeeper and make a little coin. Our funds aren't going to keep us here and fed forever.”

He was right, but something about that truth caught her off guard. It was easier to imagine the Thalmor simply demanding things.

Yet now that she thought about it, Kynril had paid for many things over the last week. His new steel sword, food and lodging at the Old Hroldan inn, the services of the driver who'd brought them out of the Reach. He had paid Hulda for last night's meal and their first week in their room.

Then again, he had been suspended from being a justiciar, Rachel reminded herself. Whatever power he held over civilians didn't exist anymore. It didn't seem wise to go announcing around Whiterun that he was Thalmor either.

And besides, he didn't seem the type to just demand and take. Or so she hoped.

“But first, some shopping, a little exercise, and fresh air,” Ren'dar said, tugging her thoughts back to the two of them. “This one guesses you have had enough of sitting around for days and days.”

And that was why in an hour's time they were found in the market circle. Rachel carried the basket in her gloved hands, and in it their new loaves of bread, two different wheels of cheese, roots and spices and herbs. These things, they stored in their room, along with a few bottles of ale.

Then Ren'dar retrieved a long bundle wrapped in cloth from the bottom of the wardrobe, picked up two full water skins from their table, and led her back outside.

The difference between Whiterun and Markarth was striking. Markarth was all crags and narrow walkways and stairs, while Whiterun's streets were wider and quite flat in comparison. Markarth could easily cost you a few bones if you lost your footing on a good day; she imagined that Whiterun's gentle slopes were more forgiving. Markarth and its ancient stone might have been safer if a dragon appeared. Whiterun was considerably more wooden. Which might not have been the best idea, she thought, if the city actually had a history involving dragons.

The imposing building they approached, from its steep curved roof to the shields hanging over the eaves and its supports, was almost entirely wooden above its foundations. Rachel expected, with some apprehension, for Ren'dar to walk up to the doors and usher her inside. Instead, he turned and followed a path around the hall, to a long, wide yard edged with training dummies and archery targets.

“This one mentioned exercise and fresh air, yes?” said Ren'dar.

Rachel hovered at the edge, hesitant. The yard was already occupied by a Nord with a massive axe and another with a long bow. Were a Breton and Khajiit welcome?

“What are we doing here?” she asked Ren'dar.

He turned back to her. “Ren'dar does not want to scare you. But he is not going to lie. Your old master gave you your shield for a reason.”

Rachel blushed. The shield was back at the inn, in their wardrobe. And now that it was clear he intended for her to learn to use it, she wished she had not left it behind. Or that he had told her to bring it.

But Ren'dar did not linger on that inconvenience. “War stirs to our east, brigrands and Stormcloaks and hungry animals lurk in the wilderness, and Skyrim itself is not friendly to us.”

“Wherever we go, even if it is only back to Markarth, we might find ourselves in danger,” he continued. “A lot of danger. You need to know how to protect yourself. S'rendarr permitting, for as long as we work together, Ren'dar will protect you from harm, and so will our elven friend. But S'rendarr is not always permitting. And yes, our friend told him all about how you had to rescue _him_.”

Ah, yes, she thought. Their escape from Understone Keep. Considerably easier as a beast. Except for the part where she suspected Ondolemar had to halt a city-wide werewolf hunt.

“But you cannot always rely on being able to do what you did that day. And that had consequences. You will not always have your magic either. Ren'dar has seen many things, and will tell you that most mages die fast in battle when their magicka runs out.”

Given Kynril's helplessness after being struck with some shock magic arrow on that very evening, she believed him.

“I don't know anything about weapons,” Rachel said, glancing at the bundle Ren'dar had set down.

“That is what weapons training is for,” he laughed. “But you must have some strength from your smithing lessons, yes? And you might remember what your master told you about weapon shape and weight. It will all help you today.”

Ren'dar unwrapped the bundle, revealing two wooden swords.

“You might see a lot of mages like you carrying daggers,” said Ren'dar. “Practical, yes. Useful for many rituals. But useless to the untrained in close combat. Especially if your enemy is a big Nord with a battle axe. Swords are more reliable.”

He handed her one of the training swords. She took it carefully and turned it over in her hands, taking in the weight and feel of it. The shape, close enough to the metal swords she'd worked with once. But it was lighter, weighted differently, and the edges and tip were smoothed round.

Ren'dar continued with his explanation. “Maces are nice for bashing things. And severing them, depending on their shape. Did you not notice that nice moonstone mace his boss carries? Useful for dealing with armored threats and assassins who think they're sneaky, or so this one has been told.”

Rachel had never noticed Ondolemar carrying a mundane weapon. It probably helped that she'd never seen him _wield_ one, and that the respect he inspired drew the eyes considerably higher than his hip. But she could imagine it. And it was very satisfying to think of him threatening a few men. The Silver-Bloods' mercenaries came to mind.

“And then there are axes,” said Ren'dar, bringing her back to Whiterun. “Nords like axes. But this one does not think you have the stomach for taking off limbs or hacking steel deep into flesh. No, we'll start with the nice, basic sword.”

First, Rachel was shown how to properly grip her sword, and keep it from doing something deadly or potentially embarrassing, like flying out of her hand and sailing over the city walls, down to the cliffs and farmlands below.

Then there was advice: work slowly and deliberately to perfect form and avoid exhaustion.

And then the drills followed. The drills were, of course, basic ways to swing a sword effectively, without hurting her own arms or wrists or losing her balance. Ren'dar stood nearby, watching, often calling out reminders to keep her back straight or hold her elbows a certain way. It reminded her of Ghorza, and her first months apprenticing under her.

Ren'dar did not remain idle. Once he was satisfied with her form, he ran through his own exercises.

They paused only for water and a few minutes of rest and stretching. The work continued until her arms felt stiff and sore and her robes were damp with sweat. Until the sun had crawled closer to the horizon. They began their trudge back to the inn, where at long last they paid for two bowls of stew and took them up to their room to eat in peace.

Flickering orange light greeted them. Kynril was back. He'd kicked off his boots, and the rest of his leather armor lay in a heap by the wardrobe, and he was lounging in loose civilian clothes. Between himself and a handful of new books, the mer took up half the bed. And he'd lit a candle to compensate for the lack of light; it rested safely on the drawers.

“I was starting to wonder where you'd run off to,” he said as they entered the room, “Training.... Not a bad idea.”

Rachel put her tray down, then wrapped the wooden swords and set them back down in the bottom of the wardrobe.

“There is plenty of room behind that upside-down boat, if you want to join us tomorrow,” said Ren'dar as he took his seat.

“Can't,” said Kynril. “Too much to do. The Jarl's court wizard has agreed to let me borrow from his library.”

Rachel eyed the small pile of books. But she waited until she had finished her food to ask any questions. It was a suspenseful silence. A silence full of potato and cabbage.

“Anything about dragons or... the Dragonborn in there?” she finally asked.

“Nothing I haven't read yet. And everything new is even more steeped in Nordic heresy than I expected. Or it's completely ridiculous and only tangentially related to the Dragonborn. The one related to dragons, not the Emperors.”

Rachel sat down on her part of the bed, and Kynril passed her a thick tome. “This should give you a laugh. It's about Nords. Supposedly.”

She took off her gloves and read for a few minutes. Then she frowned at the passage. “So if you can Shout, does that mean you're secretly a Nord?”

The Thalmor's mouth twisted and he paled. “That one is completely ridiculous.”

“And if the most powerful Nords can Shout, can Jarl Igmund Shout? Does Jarl Igmund have a rope made of tongues, like it says here?”

“Breton, no. Gods, why does the court wizard even _have_ this book?”

Rachel set _Children of the Sky_ back down and glanced at the rest of the covers. There were other titles referring to Nords, and then the Empire....

“There is at least one account that says the heathen god Shezarr – or Lorkhan, who you know as Sheor – started the line of Dragonborn Emperors by giving his heart to Alessia,” said Kynril. “ _That_ is curious. The Empire has long asserted that their claim to the Ruby Throne lies in the blessing of Auri-El. Or rather, Akatosh. The one that isn't too elven for them to stomach.”

He covered a yawn and set his book down.

“Sleep would be a good idea,” suggested Ren'dar. Then he addressed Rachel. “We return to the training grounds tomorrow. Bring that shield Ghorza gave you this time. We'll see if we can teach you how to use it.”


	4. The Wolf

And return to training they did.

There were watchers. The warriors of Jorrvaskr owned the yard, of course, and did not abandon it for guests. Nor did they pretend not to see what unfolded from the comfort of their tables and shaded porch. Something about their attention unnerved her, and so did the voice of her thoughts that followed their stares.

They are stronger than you. Older. Better.

She forced her own attention back to Ren'dar and the drills he had given her.

Arms still sore from the past day's work, Rachel had been given a new set of exercises. There were defensive stances to try and dummies to hit.

As she progressed, Ren'dar moved on to giving her blocking practice. First they were mostly stationary. Her mentor began with exaggerated, predictable, slow strikes – raising his training sword high over their heads, moving it off to one side for inward or outward sweeps.

And soon, because battles were not stationary, he moved on to footwork.

Swordsmanship not forgotten, he would promise that he was difficult to hurt, and then ask her to attack any way she could think of, using everything she knew. Not a single blow landed, but she found herself disarmed and running to retrieve her sword a few times.

Finally, days later, when he seemed sure she had a grasp of the basics, Ren'dar challenged her to spar with him.

It was something she had not expected. Even hearing the details of his jail escape back in Markarth had not prepared her for it – the speed and balance in every dodge, the accuracy of every strike, the force behind every blow that connected with her shield. He said he was going easy on her. And from the difference in strikes if they hit robed skin instead of hide shield, she believed him.

It was a relief when he called the end of the session and lowered his sword. Rachel nearly dropped her own things before retrieving the water skin.

–

They retired from the yard early that day; Ren'dar was eager to cook 'something special'. Rachel was left in the inn room while Ren'dar took a wheel of cheese and two bottles of ale downstairs.

She took the time to look at the sparring damage. It would have been nice to have werewolf hide all the time, she thought, carefully prodding a fresh bruise on her forearm. A few painful marks stood out, bright red against white.

It was not long before Kynril returned, as usual with another sack of books to study. But this time, he handed her a few tomes from the top of the bag's contents before he sat down.

“It is good that Ren'dar is training you, but from what I can tell your magical education is lacking,” he said, and busied himself removing his leather gauntlets and boots. “This is through no fault of your own. The potential of anyone's magical growth is severely limited in a place such as Skyrim, let alone the... safety... of Markarth.”

Rachel looked at the books he'd given her. _Introduction to Summoning_ , said the first one. There were also _A Novice's Defensive Magic_ and _Elementary Restorative Arts_.

“Farengar was generous enough to lend these when I told him I had a mage in training with me. He'll want them back when you're through.”

Rachel thanked him and decided to begin with the theories of summoning, easily the most exciting thing in the stack.

The idea was simple. In exchange for an offering of magicka, one could call something from another Plane, be it a tool or a daedra, to be bound to the summoner's very existence and will.

A strange thought popped into her mind. “Could a daedra summon a person to Oblivion?”

“Gods forbid it,” said Kynril. “Or so I hope.”

There were limits and dangers. The summoned could only linger on Nirn for a short time, and the stronger a daedra, the more likely they were to turn on the one who called them. Bounds tools and weapons could break, and bound daedra could be killed, and either would instantly return to Oblivion when that happened.

The easiest things to summon were imps, wolves, scamps, and the like. With enough practice, one could call a clannfear to do their bidding, or–

The door opened. Ren'dar walked back in, carrying a large bowl of something and a few loaves of bread on a tray, and shut the door with the bottom of his boot. He set the load down on the table, and when Rachel looked into the bowl she knew exactly what the ale and cheese had gone into.

“A special treat from Elsweyr,” Ren'dar said.

“A shame you can't find all the ingredients for Khajiiti cuisine in a place like this,” Kynril said, watching him carefully.

“True, the cheese and ale aren't quite what I would have used back home. But they are close enough.”

Kynril's eyes widened a bit, but he said nothing more on the matter.

–

Ren'dar had given her Fredas off from training, but accompanied her back behind Jorrvaskr anyway, to stand by as she practiced what she'd read. This time, he'd brought a large bow and a quiver of arrows with him.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Rachel asked.

“If anything gets out of control, it dies,” Ren'dar shrugged. “You have nothing to fear.”

Rachel faced forward again, stared at the large eagle statue looming over the grounds from its perch on higher rocks. Then she reached into her well of magicka. It was going to be just a little different from turning her own magic into light, she told herself. Just open a tiny portal and call the nearest tiny daedra. Simple.

There _was_ something in easy reach. Triumphant, she seized it and ripped it forth, willing it to appear on the cobblestone yard before her.

The expected light erupted around her own body instead. She was dying. Whatever she'd summoned, her vision blurred too much for her to tell what it was. She fell.

There were voices, soft and distorted as if her head were underwater. Startled cries. Ren'dar? Ren'dar yelling something, other voices shouting a response.

Then she was on her side, under the cool, shaded porch of Jorrvaskr, staring numbly at the straw dummies across the training grounds. Her body felt weighed down like never before, her mind in a strange fog.

“It's probably just magicka exhaustion.”

A Nordic accent. Rachel managed to turn her head and saw someone in priests' robes standing over her. Ren'dar stood next to her, and she could make out two or three warriors of Jorrvaskr behind them, watching with shaking heads or folded arms.

“Take it easy,” said the priestess, apparently noticing the movement. “Don't get up too fast. You've expended too much of your strength.”

Rachel pushed herself up onto an elbow, waited for her head to spin less and her vision to clear. “What happened...?”

“Magicka exhaustion,” the priestess repeated. “You just need a day of bed rest, a few good meals, and maybe a pot of tea. You'll feel right again before you know it. But by Kynareth, child, what were you trying to summon?”

“Nothing more than a friendly familiar,” said Ren'dar before she could answer. “It has returned to wherever it came from. This one thanks you for your help.” Then he knelt next to Rachel. “We should go back to the inn. Can you stand?”

Rachel did not have to wonder for long what she had summoned. When evening had come and the loud voices of the inn below cut the risk of them being overheard, Ren'dar told her and Kynril what he had seen. It had been a ghostly wolf, and it did not come from any portal to Oblivion. It had leapt straight out of her body.

Neither of them had heard of it happening before, but they reached what seemed like the only answer. The spell had worked differently because she was a werewolf. She might not have even scraped Oblivion at all.

The idea was almost sound, thought Kynril, except that if on every werewolf was a daedra, and it was that easy to summon that daedra out of the body, and then perhaps get rid of it, any skilled conjurer could cure lycanthropy.

Rachel had nothing to say to that, but was surprised that she felt a strong aversion to the idea.

Kynril was also surprised that magicka exhaustion had even occurred from a single summoning. Bretons were too magical for that, and in Markarth she had demonstrated stronger, better magic than a summoning. Magic that required more from her as a caster.

They thought on it and settled for the idea that the very same thing that made the summoning go wrong, whatever it was, also demanded a larger amount of her power.

Ren'dar did not put arms training on her the day after that. Instead, he went to do chores for the innkeeper to cover the next week's payment, while Rachel stayed in bed, sipped a weak sweetened jazbay tea, and studied magical theory on healing and defensive magic.

Oakflesh, a fairly weak mage's armor. A simple channeling of one's magicka from the entire body outward, repelling minor blows. Wards, which she already had some practice with, weren't so different; the magicka was focused as a shield.

Then there was restoration. In its simplest form, healing the self, the magicka attempted to restore its vessel to its typical shape. Which made sense, she thought as she remembered Kynril using it to close an arrow wound. It could also be used to heal others, if the healer could feel the subject's magicka and from there restore the body.

More sophisticated healing, like treating complicated wounds, was more dangerous and required more expertise, regardless of whose wounds they were. It was far too easy to shatter bones, destroy muscle, or ruin even the healthiest of organs. Which was why the author absolutely refused to go beyond the basics.

Cautiously, she opened the tome on summoning again. What was so hard about summoning a creature of Oblivion? To open a little portal, to call forth a lesser creature, was beginner's work.

She considered focusing harder and attempting to summon an imp. She quickly decided against it; the last thing she needed was to scare Ren'dar again by being passed out when he got back. Especially with an unsupervised daedra flapping around the room.


	5. Companionship

The next morning's tea was interrupted by the worst noise. An unearthly, bone-freezing bellow from the sky and a rush of heavy wind took the already busy inn by surprise.

They listened, Rachel dimly aware that she had started to sweat badly, Ren'dar with his ears pressed down, pupils wide, and his lips curled into a hiss. The sound did not return.

As the initial hush downstairs gave way to uproar, Ren'dar pulled his boots on.

Rachel, unwilling to move, tried to steady her trembling hands on her mug. “Was that another dragon?”

“Probably. But this one will try to learn more. Come, if you wish.”

Going outside seemed like a bad idea, but being alone was even less appealing. Rachel abandoned her cooling tea to follow him. There was no mystery to what had just happened. They heard it as Hulda tried to restore order among her patrons.

“A dragon!”

“It was a dragon!”

“We guessed correctly,” said Ren'dar, his tail swishing left and right. “We should find the elf.”

It was not much better outside, where yelling townsfolk crowded around the well, some trying to run to their homes lower in the city, others crying out in prayer to Talos or Kynareth. The guards were out too, trying in vain to urge calm. Ren'dar took her hand and led her carefully through the throng, until they had passed the circle and found a hill with a clearer view of the way to and from Dragonsreach.

A few minutes later, Ren'dar tapped her on the shoulder. Rachel followed his eyes through the crowds, to a head of white hair. Kynril was walking briskly, not to Cloud District and Dragonsreach, but down the slopes and toward the city gate.

Ren'dar was running after him in seconds, and Rachel kept up as best as she could. Kynril was not happy to be caught; Rachel glimpsed surprise, before the mer set his face and stared at them as if they were a boring passage of text.

“It would not do to leave Whiterun without at least telling us about it,” Ren'dar said quietly. “What would Ondolemar think?”

It called to mind her Altmeri etiquette studies, and the responsibilities of lords. Even if Kynril was a poor lord. It was not merely inconsiderate to run off without a warning to one's servants. It was not _done_.

“The two of you can look after yourselves,” Kynril said, leaning away from him. “You have proven yourselves capable.”

“Dog shit!”

A few passersby turned their heads, and Kynril's cheeks flushed.

“A dragon flies over the city and here you are, running away! Where do you think to go?” Ren'dar asked. “For how long?”

“If you must know,” and Kynril's shoulders sagged, “I'm running a _brief_ errand for the court wizard. He requires an ancient artifact from the barrows on some mountain south of here. It will further his understanding of this dragon crisis, which he might be inclined to share with me.”

“Really? And does this have something to do with that dragon?”

“Yes, and no. He's been waiting to ask someone to fetch this artifact. But our new dragon, and the commotion... they lit a fire under his arse, so to speak.”

“You should have come back to the inn and told us. This one will get his bow. Rachel? Hmm....”

Ren'dar turned to her, stroking his chin with a claw. For a few moments, she imagined herself following them back out of the city, with her magic and shield and maybe a sword to back them up. But it was not to be.

“Stay in Whiterun, and keeping using our room. Hulda has already received the week's payment.”

“But... I... I can't help from here,” she stammered, and dreaded the prospect of being truly alone for the first time since they had left Markarth.

“You collapsed the other day,” Kynril said. “We can't take the chance of that happening again so soon.”

“With this one's marksmership, he and the High Elf will be untouchable,” added Ren'dar. “So there is no need to worry for us. What is important is that you continue to recover here, where you can try to use your magic again without the danger of some Nord tomb around you.”

“Yes, that would be best. Consider it an order. We'll be gone for a week at the most.”

So, that was it. She went back to the inn with Kynril and Ren'dar, where the Khajiit grabbed his things and handed her the room key. Then, after another walk back through the city, they parted at the gates. The guards shut the heavy wooden doors as soon as they were out.

She turned from the empty, unseen stare of the gate guard's helmet and started her walk back to the Bannered Mare.

Well, she thought, she could handle that.

A week alone in Whiterun?

Fine.

That would be easier than the week they'd spent on the road. Easier than days she'd spent with the Thalmor.

She kicked herself, in her mind, as she remembered that her time with the Thalmor had not ended, even with Kynril and Ren'dar now beyond the city gates. As she remembered that no part of Skyrim was her 'home' anymore. Not if Alinor had anything to say about that. Especially not if the locals knew anything about that.

Reachman had no place in Skyrim anyway.

They don't have to know, she reminded herself. Not about any of it. As long as I'm in Skyrim, only the Thalmor have to know. I'm just a Breton. A Breton from Markarth.

No, just a Breton from Skyrim.

Hopefully, that didn't carry the same meaning.

–

The next day found her behind Jorrvaskr again, with her hide shield and wooden sword, running through every drill that she could remember.

Part of her was determined not to be left behind again. If her Thalmor companions found her too weak, she would have to get strong. And what Ren'dar had said about magical liability was more true than they'd known then, on that first day; if her own magic had a risk of knocking her out, then she needed to know how to use a sword.

Then there was the part of her that simply was not angered, but almost... hungry and dissatisfied, being left behind and expected to wait for gods knew how long. The fear that despite the reassurances, something would go wrong, and they would never come back. She felt the clawing again. The persistent biting and clawing, and the unnatural strength....

The last time it had started, she had turned into a giant wolf in the middle of a crypt.

The familiarity with that feeling led to more fear. And then to trying to block out the world around her, to stop the beast before it came out again....

“Hey! Hey, you! Soft-robes!”

She nearly dropped her sword at the harsh voice. One of the larger, heavily armored warriors had emerged from their great upside-down boat hall that was Jorrvaskr, and appeared to be sizing her up from where he stood in the shade.

He's strong, she thought, and her mind's voice was rough, almost a growl. A bit too much like her own throat after turning. Too strong, she thought suddenly, and there are more inside, all of them.

And anger was replaced by a cold fear. She clenched the grip of her training sword tighter.

“You came here by yourself?” the Nord asked. “Where did you cat friend run off to?”

Cat? Rachel bit her cheek, thought of striking him across the nose. It also wasn't the Nord's business where Ren'dar had gone, she decided. “He's busy.”

“And what are _you_ doing here, mage?”

Was it the robes that made it obvious? Or had he been watching when she failed at summoning?

“I'm learning how to fight.” It wasn't a lie. And then she wondered if the hunch she'd had on the first day was right. That she and Ren'dar had not been welcome to use the grounds behind Jorrvaskr, and the warriors there just hadn't said anything yet. “This is the only safe place in the city, that I know of....”

“I'm not chasing you off,” said the Nord, waving an armored hand. “You want to get strong, right? You look promising. Most of us have seen you busting your hide out here. You keep it up, you're gonna get strong.”

That was unexpected. She felt herself blush. But, as nice as the praise was to hear, she had immediate misgivings. Misgivings that had she hoped had nothing to do with the voice – was it the wolf daedra? – that had been lurking in the back of her mind.

“Why don't you join us?” the Nord asked. “We can have a talk with the old man, see if you're Companion material.”

“Companion material...?”

“Never heard of us?” And he continued to explain, when she had no reply. “We take care of problems around Skyrim when the guards won't do the job. And as it happens, we take in homeless pups too.”

Mercenaries, then? No, she didn't like the idea of that, and she knew the Thalmor would not approve of her joining a bunch of Nordic freelances either.

“Thanks, but I can't,” said Rachel. “I don't know how long I'll be staying in Whiterun.”

“Fair enough. But if you need something to do until your friend gets back, we could use some help around here. And you don't even have to get your hands bloody. We'll compensate. Interested?”

–

Neither the wolf nor her fears were satisfied, but in busy work and new – dare she call it this? – friendship, she held both at bay.

The work was delivering the Companions' armor and weapons to the Skyforge for repairs, and returning newly tempered pieces when they were ready. The forge was easy enough to find. It was marked by that great eagle statue (and it was a _hawk_ , the Companions were eager to correct) that was visible from the training yard. And after one such visit to the Skyforge, where the statue hugged the fires between its mighty wings, she found herself becoming the short-term assistant of Eorlund Gray-Mane.

Eorlund Gray-Mane, who simply did _not_ take apprentices, which of course was why she was an assistant instead. Eorlund Gray-Mane, who was not as pleasant as Ghorza, but still tolerated her as she hovered around the forge and watched his steel smithing technique. Eorlund Gray-Mane, who apparently had a bone to pick with some clan known as the Battle-Borns, which he would not say much about. Eorlund Gray-Mane, who did not say much at all, so she was left to ask the Companions as carefully as she could.

It was a simple question. One that she hoped seemed innocent enough.

“Who are the Grey-Manes and Battle-Borns?”

And the simple answer was that they were two very old clans who'd taken different sides in Ulfric's rebellion. And there had been more tension in the last weeks, because Eorlund's Stormcloak-favoring son had disappeared and the Gray-Manes suspected the Battle-Borns of selling him out to the Empire.

Rachel had known even in Markarth that fear of the Empire was rooted in fear of the Thalmor, whether they were involved in the Empire's dealings or not. Out of respect and guilt, she did not ask more.

Her work for the Companions was easy, if a little tiring, and she had earned a bit of money for herself at the end of each day.

Then there was a quick history lesson, from the Nord who had tried to recruit her. Farkas, when asked where the Companions came from, simply replied that ages ago they drove all the elves out of Skyrim.

“Wait, you're talking about Ysgramor and his Five-Hundred Companions?” she asked, knowing already that it was true, asking herself as her gut twisted why she had not made the connection sooner.

She wondered if it evened out, in some horrible way. To associate with successors of Ysgramor while her elven master was out. To serve the Thalmor, while earning money from Nords who might have lost someone to them.

She could almost imagine the look on Kynril's face if she told him. Away from Ondolemar and the responsibilities of his post, his impeccable mask of stoicism had appeared less. Perhaps she would tell him, just to see if the mask cracked. If Kynril and Ren'dar ever made it back, her worries added.

“Who else would we be?” snorted Farkas. “Where are you from?”

“High Rock,” she said automatically, her previous plan of cover forgotten. And she realized then that High Rock might not have been the best alternative.

But she was not from Markarth. Not to the successors of Nordic conquerors. Even if they claimed not to care about the goings-on in Skyrim.

“Figures. But why would you come to Skyrim at a time like this?”

“It was too dangerous to stay there.”

That lie was a little easier to tell when she thought of city of stone.

“That explains why you'd wanna learn to fight. But listen, pup. Those robes could get you killed in a real battle. You should get yourself some armor before you leave Whiterun.”


	6. Preparations Resumed

Armor. That was a good idea. When the Companions had nothing left for her to do, Rachel stood in their yard again and tried something she hadn't tested yet.

Oakflesh. Easiest mage armor in the books that Kynril had loaned her. (Books that needed to be returned to the court wizard soon, she remembered with a bit of guilt.)

Mage armor definitely wasn't what Farkas had in mind, but it cost nothing, weighed nothing, and required only her magicka and skill.

Cautiously, she envisioned a protective skin, and cast outward. A soft light flickered into existence and settled over her gloves, her robes, and – she assumed – her own body. Even as the light faded from sight seconds later, she could still feel the spell working.

She wasn't sure how well the spell worked, and wasn't sure how to test it safely. She had a feeling she could talk one of the Companions into punching her, but didn't like the idea and decided not to bother.

It was a relief, however, to feel no significant drain on her magicka, and for it to come flooding back so quickly.

If she could do that....

She tried a small ward next, and felt the armor spell fade before she lost the energy to safely keep it raised.

And as her power returned, she weighed the risk of summoning again.

No, not with Ren'dar and Kynril gone.

And, speak of the Daedra, she heard a welcome voice call her name behind her. She turned and saw Ren'dar, back after an entire week, walking up the cobblestone path with his bow and quiver still slung behind him.

“You're alive! Oh, thank Stendarr! .... I need you to punch me.”

“Is that some kind of Breton greeting?”

“No, no. I mean....” She cast Oakflesh again.

“So I can break my hand?” Ren'dar smiled. “No, I promise that spell is working. And it's good to see that you've recovered.”

“Glad you're all right, too. Where's Kyn?”

“He is resting in our innroom. The elf is not harmed... much.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“A few cuts and bruises,” said Ren'dar. “Nothing his magic could not patch up. He is more tired than hurt now.”

“That's... good. Mostly. But... wait....” Rachel reached into her pockets, worried that she'd misplaced the key, that Ren'dar should never have trusted her with it. But the worn iron was sitting there in her robes, where she'd been sure she had left it.

“This one has his job for a reason,” the Khajiit smiled, and led the way back.

–

Kynril offered a brief smile and a 'fair day' when they returned to the room, but looked busy. Once again, he'd stripped out of his armor and put on ordinary clothes, then taken over half their bed. A slab of stone rested in front of him, while he wrote something in a small, leather-bound book by candle light.

“Is this what the court wizard wanted?” Rachel asked.

“It is. And he'll have to wait to get it.”

He looked up from his notes and squinted at the tablet. After a few seconds of watching this, Rachel cast a mage light at the ceiling.

“Thank you,” Kynril sighed, and went back to writing. “This... was being guarded by a draugr... in the back of Bleak Falls Barrow. And the effort to get it made that diversion for Ren'dar's evidence seem painless.”

“Painless? This one is still regrowing his handsome fur....”

Kynril winced. “You are right. Anyway.... On this side of the tablet, we have a crude map of Skyrim, with several markings indicating important places, as maps tend to do.... And thank the stars, whoever chiseled this had the sense to depict mountains, or else this would be even more difficult to read.”

Rachel looked at the carving at the bottom of the tablet. She could work out vicious eyes, the shape of what might have been a maw.... “Is that supposed to be a dragon's face?”

“Funny you should ask. I myself see a resemblance to a thunderbug.”

Kynril flipped the stone tablet over and took a minute to examine the runes carved into the back. Then he copied them onto a new page.

“It's got something to do with 'lords' and Alduin,” he said. “Dragon lords? ... Dragons who were lords, perhaps...?”

The mer was not satisfied with his notes until he had reviewed them several times over. Then he yawned, rubbed his temples, and decided to go hand the tablet over to Farengar before he forgot or could no longer be bothered to do it.

And after asking if she'd had enough time to read them, Kynril took the tomes on basic magic with him. For some reason, he brought those back when he returned that evening.

“The Nord was actually grateful for the stone and let us keep them. I suppose they're yours now.”

–

After his return to Whiterun, Kynril took it upon himself to oversee Rachel's training. Magical training. This, he explained, was his duty to her. A duty that he had neglected, he went on, and averted his gaze.

Rachel had spent perhaps a month now reading about Altmeri etiquette, about Altmeri masters and their duties to those under them. And she hoped that Farkas (or was it Vilkas) and Aela didn't draw the right conclusion from Kynril's apology, as they watched quietly from one of their tables.

Kynril tested the strength of her Oakflesh. At first it amounted to prodding her arms with her training sword. Then he swatted at them. That too was painless. Then he asked to to block a light blow.

“That was _light_?” she snarled, rubbing her forearm.

“Let me see,” Kynril said. “Roll up your sleeve, please.”

She did. There was a little redness – nothing worse than what she had all over her arms and sides after sparring with Ren'dar.

“With years of training and a strong magical armor, you could stop any blade, regardless of where you are struck,” Kynril explained. There was a hint of a smile in his voice, but when she looked up, it was gone. “That is an advantage that even the best mundane armor can't provide. But you can't negate all the force of a strike. You gained a small rash where you would have had a bruise. Which means your Oakflesh is decent. You might make a fine apprentice.”

“Thanks. So... do you ever use mage armor?”

“I wear mundane.”

And that was all he had to say on it. After several more armor drills, they moved onto testing her wards.

“I promise you, this spell is completely harmless,” he said, gathering a familiar red light to his fingertips.

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing, probably. I don't think you'll have a problem stopping it. But if it strikes, depending on your own confidence in yourself, and how much you trust me, it might drag any fears you have from the depths of your mind and show them to you, _only_ you, masking the truth of the waking world from your senses.”

“So... if I trust you...?”

“Do you, human?”

Kynril straightened his back, resumed the posture he'd carried back in Markarth. _Something_ had shifted in the air. He was Thalmor again, and he watched her with a look of bored disdain. He was a hawk, and she was a hare.

Rachel felt her own body tense, her fingers stiffen as if they were claws, and wondered if he had already cast his spell.

But no. The magic still waited at his fingertips.

“I am not your enemy,” Kynril said, “but you must face me now, as if I am.”

“So, this spell,” she said, apprehensive, “It's like what you did to that mercenary?”

Kynril grimaced. “It is precisely what I did to that mercenary. And while I prefer not to use it here, it's safer than throwing fire around. I sincerely apologize for whatever visions you might experience.”

After that warning, she cast her ward a bit too strong. Kynril's spell of Fear, instead of merely scattering, glanced off her magical shield and struck Farkas instead.

And that was how her training ended for the day. The Nord chased her and Kynril away from Jorrvaskr, brandishing a greatsword and shouting about 'damn elves' for all to hear.


	7. Harvest's End

Last Seed approached its close quietly. The chill that swept down from the north was bitter and sobering, not unlike the threat of war now rumored to be waiting at the border of the Whiterun Hold.

Ren'dar waited longer every day before leaving the warm sanctuary that was their room, and Rachel was not keen to follow. Only Kynril, driven by growing restlessness, rose in the early morning hours and left dressed as lightly as any Nord.

Harvest's End passed without feast or festivel, but Hulda offered a single free drink to all. The inn was busier than ever. And Kynril was scandalized by the presence of the Jarl himself, downstairs at the bar that very evening.

“I never heard of Igmund doing that,” Rachel whispered in the privacy of their room. “But by the gods, what are kings _supposed_ to do on holidays in Alinor?”

“They certainly don't throw themselves to the public,” Kynril muttered. “There would be uproar if the Canonreeve of Vulkhel Guard made an appearance at the tavern.”

“Canonreeves? Taverns?” Rachel tried to imagine a group of Thalmor, in their dark robes and polished armor, sitting around a fire, drinking, _joking_. Then again, not all Altmer could possibly be Thalmor. But would the Thalmor allow such things? “Alinor has taverns?”

“This one was surprised at first,” said Ren'dar, “but not surprised that he was not allowed in without his superiors.”

“But to answer your question,” Kynril hastily continued, while Ren'dar scowled at him behind his tankard, “the nobility tend to... make a brief and formal public appearance, if they choose to appear at all. And if it's a more solemn occasion, a priest or aldarch will be there to lead prayers.”

“What's an aldarch?”

“Think of the head priestess of the Temple of Dibella. Then imagine she were twice again more important.”

It was harder to imagine than Thamor at a tavern, she thought. “Would that be more important than Igmund?”

“Yes.”

“So what are canonreeves?”

“They're a bit like jarls, yet nothing like this Balgruuf.”

And as Rachel heard later, it was not at all that strange for Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun to sneak to the inn. And sneak he had to, for his housecarl would have none of it.

–

Just as she had begun to wonder if they would ever leave Whiterun, the missive arrived. And it did not arrive in a form she had expected. It came as a surprise, as she and Ren'dar stepped out into the frosty early morning to begin cutting firewood.

“Hey, Khajiit!”

They turned their heads to see a familiar Bosmeri hunter. As usual, he was the first to set up his market stall for the day. And he beckoned them closer.

“I have something I think you'll be interested in,” said the mer, when Ren'dar did not move. “It's nice and fresh. I caught it at sunrise.”

Rachel looked at Ren'dar. His ears flicked back for a second, and he approached the stall. “Ah, yes.... The morning sun shines upon great fortune.”

“Indeed, my friend.” The Bosmer knelt down to unlock something. A wooden screen slid open, then snapped shut again. When he emerged, he held a short, wide parcel bound in paper and twine. “Enjoy!”

“This is a generous gift! You have our thanks.”

He and Rachel abandoned the firewood, returned to the inn room, and shut the door. Ren'dar carefully untied the cords around the paper. Inside, nestled among some dried meat and wadded paper, was a scroll of fine parchment, sealed with glossy red wax. He opened the scroll, flicked his eyes down its contents, and then carefully rolled it up again.

“This one must ask you to fetch Kynril,” Ren'dar said, handing the scroll to her. “It's time to go back to Markarth.”

“Markarth? Really?” A strange feeling settled in her gut – some combination of nerves and relief. “Is it safe?”

Ren'dar poked a strip of meat into his mouth. “This one does not think he would ask us to walk into a trap.”

Ondolemar had been a lot more cautious than that, now that she thought about it. She agreed and left Ren'dar, and for some reason felt no need to rush as she walked down the steps, past the other patrons, and out of the Bannered Mare.

If they were going back to Markarth, what did the Thalmor commander have waiting for them? Word from First Emissary Elenwen? If they were to report to Markarth, did that mean Elenwen didn't want action for her 'heresy' and lycanthropy? Did that mean the Silver-Bloods were finally gone?

The itch of a curiosity she hadn't felt since Sun's Height set in again. Instead of passing Jorrvaskr, she took a moment to step off the road, into the relative privacy of the walled path to the yard.

The scroll wasn't meant for her eyes. She knew that. But Ren'dar had already opened the seal. So it was with twitching hands that she pulled it from her robes and carefully unrolled it to read.

_Kynril,_

_I hereby reinstate your rank. You and your company are to return to Markarth immediately._

_\- Ondolemar_

That didn't tell her much. She rolled up the note again, placed it back into its pocket, and resumed her walk to Dragonsreach.

So Kynril was really a justiciar again. Just like that. After a month of researching what it meant to be Dragonborn, he was going back to being a guardsmer, as if nothing had ever happened.

It was hard to imagine what she would even do in Markarth, considering her last days there under Thalmor custody involved sitting in a barracks and reading and dreading the future. What kind of work would Ondolemar have in mind? What could the Thalmor possibly expect her to do?

She wished, as she approached the doors into Dragonsreach, that somehow her heresy confession of a month ago no longer applied. It had only been a quick way out of worse trouble. But her old life in Markarth? With long days spent outside at the forge? It was over.

Ren'dar had once told her that Ondolemar would give her something to do. Kynril had assured her that it would be within her capabilities. She latched onto those words, as she walked quietly through the great hall, keeping her eyes away from the throne and looking for the court wizard's study.

She had the luck to check the right place first – a room just off the great hall, where Kynril and a Nord in robes were bent over something on a desk.

“As you can see, Riften's dragon sighting is close to the burial site near the border....”

“Maybe the dragons practice ancestor worship,” Kynril said. “That was a joke.”

The Nord, who Rachel assumed was Farengar, straightened up from the collection of maps and papers. “We have a visitor! A fellow mage, it seems.”

“Rachel?” Kynril looked up in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Ah, so this is your friend! I hope those spell tomes were beneficial?”

“Er... yes, thanks.” Rachel shuffled in the doorway and met Kynril's eyes. “You've got a letter.”

His reaction was the same as Ren'dar's. “I see. If you'll excuse me for a moment, Farengar....”

Kynril stepped out of the room and walked some distance along the wall with her at his heels. When he seemed satisfied that they had enough privacy, he stopped and waited. Rachel handed the scroll to him.

He frowned at the disturbed seal. “Did you read this?”

“Ren'dar opened it,” she said, looking across the hall.

And Kynril read the letter. “Oh, this changes things,” he sighed. “Very well.”

The mer walked back into the mage's quarters. “I'm afraid I'm leaving Whiterun today. I cannot say when, or if, I will be able to return.”

“That's a shame. It's been interesting working with you, master elf.”

Kynril led the way back out of Dragonsreach with purpose she hadn't seen in his steps since Markarth. The guards took notice as well, moving farther out of the way, watching more closely as he passed.

“So, what does this mean?” she asked.

“We're returning to Markarth,” said Kynril. “Another long week on the road begins today.”

“What else does it mean?”

“You read it, didn't you?”

“What?”

“Oh, just admit it,” Kynril smiled. “You were a nosy dog in Markarth, and you are one now.”

Rachel said nothing. They reached the bottom of the winding steps and the circle in front of Jorrvaskr. The city's Talos shrine loomed to their left, its sole caretaker and priest, as always, shouting prayers at all who walked by.

“Pity I can't arrest that one,” Kynril muttered.

“Why on Nirn not?” asked Rachel. She immediately realized her error. “I mean... uh....”

“Your confession has been noted. I'll overlook this, but in the future I'd advise you to keep your eyes off of official correspondence that isn't meant for you.”

“Uh.... Yes. Of course, my... erm,” she hesitated. “So if you're a justiciar again, does this mean I have to be all formal with you now?”

“In certain company, yes. Here? No, no need to scare Whiterun. But I hope you've been studying.”

–

The first order of business, after finding out that not a single carriage was available, was buying bed rolls for the cold nights ahead of them. Then there was a short sword, made of steel, that Ren'dar insisted on purchasing for her. Her new burden and sword hung awkwardly at her back and hip, beneath the bag she already had to carry. It was with these, new provisions, and everything else they'd started with that they set off on foot.

The sun climbed quickly behind them as they walked past acre after acre of farm. And once it was overhead, she could still see the shape of Dragonsreach high up on the hills behind them.

Rachel wasn't sure how the others could stand to walk so far, for so long, and settled for the conclusion that they simply could, because they were Thalmor and the rest of the Thalmor demanded it. Especially from Kynril. The foot soldier had to have been trained for it. She wondered how used to this Ren'dar was, and if his injuries from weeks ago still hindered him. But he moved with apparent ease and lightness in his steps.

It was a blessing from Stendarr upon her legs when they finally stopped for the evening. They established a camp site behind some rocks just off the main road, across from an old fort displaying Imperial dragon banners.

Then came the humor of Magnus, as Kynril attempted to start a campfire with the sticks and branches they found, only to decorate them with a thin coating of frost.

“It's just a simple fire,” the mer groaned, rubbing his hands and trying again. “Stars above! Light!”

And light did appear. It hovered over his head. Rachel didn't know the context, when he swore in Altmeris, but it might have had something to do with scaly creatures and their anatomy.

“How do you cast fire, anyway?” Rachel asked.

“The _theory_ is that you will your magicka to become fire in your hands, and then you project it at your target. It shouldn't be beyond your skill.”

If it was just a matter of will, casting fire didn't sound too different from making her magicka into armor or a shield. Rachel knelt close to the pile of icy kindling and rolled up her sleeves, hoped the wood would still catch, then envisioned crackling heat....

Small bolts of lightning jumped from her gloves, and the others cried out. Thankfully, stopping was as easy as _not_ wanting to cast anything.

“Too much heat!” Kynril gasped as he picked himself up off the ground. He began trying to smooth his hair back down.

Ren'dar, who remained comfortably on his own seat, looked a little fluffier than usual but otherwise untouched. “Perhaps a more... mundane approach? Let this one do it.”

Only Ren'dar was trusted to light the campfires after that.

–

The next day promised to be fairly boring. They woke up to cool air and fair skies, packed their bed rolls, and ate as they continued the march west.

Then came midday, and the unearthly noise she had been hoping not to hear at any time on the road. The roar was followed by another one, much closer, and the rush of wind over giant wings and grass.

The dragon swooped over their heads. She barely had time to cast armor around herself and run for the shelter of a large outcropping before the thing circled back. It halted in the air over them, hovered like an enormous scaly bird sizing up insects....

The dragon inhaled.

Kynril dove for cover next to her. A wave of intense heat passed over; the fireball exploded the ground thirty feet behind them. Then the panicked question of _what happened to Ren'dar_ was answered by the whistle of an arrow, followed by the dragon screeching and flying a short distance away before turning.

Ren'dar nocked his bow again. “Get up!”

Another arrow flew, followed by two, three more. The Dragon roared again in rage and turned its attention to the Khajiit.

There was no time for him to run, Rachel realized with a surge of terror. She leapt to his side, and heard Kynril yell something....

The next fireball crashed against her ward, and everything became a whirlwind of grass and pain. At least all her limbs were there and nothing hurt _too_ badly, Rachel thought, as she watched the clouds spin. Her hip and leg had probably bruised against the scabbard though.

Kynril ran to them as the dragon made another pass. She managed to turn her head to look at him.

“Oh, thank the stars,” the mer breathed.

“I'm... okay, I think,” Rachel said, shakily sitting up.

“That was... good thinking.” Ren'dar rolled to his feet and retrieved his bow from where it had landed.

Kynril was still watching the sky. “Damn it! He's coming back!”

The dragon finally chose to land, and to her horror it crawled at them, speeding on clawed wings and thick legs, mouth open and baring teeth as long as swords.

Rachel renewed her armor and desperately tried to imagine a shell of magicka around Ren'dar too; it flickered there for a moment and did not take. But the spell had no problems with Kynril.

She supposed that if Ren'dar's arrows could wound a dragon, so could a sword. And it was probably with this logic that Kynril charged, gripped his sword in two hands, and as the dragon inhaled again, brought it down hard across the beast's snout.

The dragon shrieked again, splashing blood over the dry grass, and Kynril, emboldened, continued striking with a fury she had not seen in him before. It was too much for the dragon. The beast took off again in apparent panic and flew away, only to crash a small distance to the west.

They could only watch as it turned on a giant and pair of mammoths. And then it fell to them, unfurling its wings and thrashing its tail one last time as a massive bone club came down on its skull.

What happened next took them all by surprise. The dragon's body erupted in flame, and aetherial light flashed across the plains, pouring from the remains and flowing around a startled Kynril. By the time it faded, there was nothing left of the dragon but bones.

Rachel and Ren'dar looked back to Kynril. He stood trembling.

“Auri-El preserve me! I–”

And before any of them could say anything, another terrible noise echoed across the fields – a thunderous roar from the mountains far to the east.

Ren'dar sighed as Kynril turned his back to them.

“Dovahkiin does mean Dragonborn, doesn't it?” Ren'dar asked softly. “I do not think there is any more room for doubt.”

Kynril said nothing.

“I also think someone just tried to call you. But shouting across the sky? Not very polite.”

Kynril sat down, drew a rag from his things, and began to wipe his sword clean. “We make camp here tonight. You've both earned a rest.”


	8. The Crossroads

They resumed their trek west as the sun rose, with no heed for the whims of the shouting sky voices. Dragonborn or not, reasoned Kynril, the summons of his own commander came first. The Greybeards, the monks he assumed had shouted across the plains, would just have to wait. Older and venerable as they were, he was not beholden to them.

They could no longer see the city of Whiterun. But the mountains of the Reach came into view as they marched. They were not interrupted by anything, giants or dragons, and passed only a small band of merchants. And so they made far more progress.

The evening's camp was made at what Kynril identified as a dragon burial site, a large, fairly flat mound of dirt encircled by weathered stones that coiled around it twice. They had seen it before, at a distance as their carriage rolled into Whiterun Hold from the Reach. And, as Kynril quickly pointed out, the grave had recently been disturbed. The dirt mound was more of a pit, with the absence of a dead dragon somewhere in there.

“Let's hope,” he said as Ren'dar began searching for dry wood, “that the thing entombed here was we what faced yesterday, and isn't skulking about waiting to eat us.”

“Undead dragons?” Rachel paused in the middle of spreading a bedroll. “Stendarr, help us....”

Kynril continued inspecting the upturned soil and grass, while questions returned to the front of her mind. Questions she'd decided not to ask for two days.

“Erm. My lord. If you don't mind me asking....”

And she had the distinct feeling that he would mind, as he turned his head to look at her.

“You really are Dragonborn, right? What are you going to do now?”

Kynril frowned. “I am to return to Markarth and present my findings to the commander, as I'm sure you already understand. Then... I will have to hope that he... still sees fit for me to live and serve.”

Rachel froze. “What? Why? He just made you a justiciar again! Why would he _kill_ you?”

“Did you notice, by chance, when you read any of those books? The Dragonborn has a strong connection to Skyrim, to the Nords, even to Talos. And here I am, an Altmer, who is obviously Dragonborn. The soul I... absorbed,” he cringed, “only confirmed it. I am an embodiment of heresy. A disgrace to the Alinor and the blood of Aldmeris. And no matter what my loyalties are, I present a threat to the Thalmor.”

He nudged a loose rock with the toe of his boot. It clattered down the stone slabs.

Rachel felt numb. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. If that was true, then it made everything – fleeing to Whiterun, the entire month spent there – pointless. A mere reprieve from a fate everyone had neglected to tell her about.

“You should have told us!”

“It was none of your concern, human!”

She flinched. “Right. Sorry.”

She looked away from him then, and chose to become very busy with the rest of the campsite. There was Ren'dar's bedroll to set up, she deliberately thought, and ignored the footsteps getting closer. And soon he'd be back with firewood, and–

“I should apologize,” Kynril said weakly. “Your outburst is forgiven. My... manner of response was not so merited.”

“It wasn't my business.”

“Perhaps.” Kynril stooped and sat on the dry grass. “But perhaps it was also cruel for me not to speak of it.”

She looked up. It was a little hard to see in the fading evening light, but there was no mask. There was, however, fear and regret that looked out of place on a justiciar.

“I thought you weren't worried about this anymore,” Rachel said carefully. “Or were you?”

“I... hadn't become a living soul gem for a dragon until yesterday,” Kynril sighed. “Now we _know_ I am Dragonborn, not merely some mer who can Shout, as any Nord could with enough practice.”

“But it was Ondolemar who told you to go learn about the Dragonborn while we were in Whiterun. Because he thought it was you. If he thought you really had to die for that, why did he even let you–”

“He said he would spare me and plead with the First Emissary on my behalf.”

So, Rachel realized, it was not unlike her own situation. Her heart fell. Her own situation, which was not entirely over, she recalled. And if Kynril was doubtful of his prospects, what did it mean for _her_?

“You need to understand. Ondolemar has a reputation for being too merciful. The First Emissary is far less forgiving.”

Rachel bit her cheek. “That's not good for me either, then. He said the First Emissary would have to look at _my_ charges too.”

“You... have less reason to fear,” Kynril said.

“Really? Because he caught me at a shrine of Talos, and you told him I said 'by the Nine' once, and then I faked that prayer and everything....”

“Ah yes, the very prayer that ended with me getting my hand on the blasted shrine. How could I forget?” Kynril rolled his eyes.

“You Thalmor are supposed to _kill_ heretics like me. Not that I am a heretic,” she added hastily. “And then there's the werewolf bit!”

“Fair enough, but you are a subject of Alinor now.”

“That part's so the Empire can't say no to Alinor killing me, remember? Ondolemar told me that himself.”

“He wouldn't have said that.”

“No, not exactly like that, but you know it's true.”

“Fine, fine, you have more than sufficient reason to fear for your life. But a petty heretic is not as threatening as a Shouting, dragon soul eating, Talos mantling, Alessian-cursed _abomination of Lorkhan_.”

Rachel stared. “What does all that even mean? I... actually, I'll find out later I'm sure.”

She stood up and brushed the dead grass off her robes. Something was still wrong, in her mind. “Ondolemar told us to run from the First Emissary's agents if they found us,” she said. “He _must_ want us to live. Why would he call us back if the First Emissary ordered him to kill you?”

“Ondolemar is too merciful, and you have grown uncharacteristically trusting of him.”

Rachel nearly argued that Ondolemar had helped her, whatever his reasons were. That he had earned her trust. And then she realized that would be proving the mer's point. And her anxieties quickly grabbed onto that idea.

Yes, she thought, how do you know you won't be thrown away when Ondolemar has no more reasons to keep you alive?

But Ondolemar was _merciful_ , Kynril had said.

“Why are you going back at all if you expect him to kill you?” she asked, and hoped his answer would quell the surge of worries. “I mean, there's still time. To go somewhere safe.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Like Morrowind.”

Kynril massaged his forehead. “It is a far better fate to die quickly at the reluctant hand of your commander than to be hunted down. Frankly, I am relieved beyond your comprehension that you haven't tried to flee yet.”

Rachel froze. “So... that's why that night at the shrine was so....”

“Exactly.” Kynril pushed himself to his feet.

They were interrupted by Ren'dar, calling from some distance away.

“Get over here! You need to see this!”

Kynril turned his head in surprise, then shrugged and began to walk in the direction of his voice.

“And that's why you didn't want me sneaking out?” she asked, nearly jogging to keep up with his strides.

“Escaped prisoners hardly get more kindness than deserters,” Kynril said. “Even if they do come back.”

She decided to change the subject. Before her mind took that and ran with it.

“Supposing you live,” said Rachel, trying to shove some hope into the conversation, “are you really just going to be a justiciar when we get back? Doesn't the Dragonborn have to do important Dragonborn things?”

Kynril hesitated. “The legend of this... last Dragonborn, which I apparently am... is that a world-eating dragon shall awaken. It might have already awakened. And since Nordic legends are all about heroism, I would be expected to stop this World-Eater. Alduin.”

“Sounds hard to do from Markarth. Or a grave.”

“Lorkhan should have picked some big brutish Nord for this,” Kynril sighed.

“And what will I do?”

“I wish I could answer that. I cannot guess Ondolemar's intentions for you.”

What she did not tell him was that she missed the forge. For she had not made up her mind to tell him that before they crossed the worn stone and dirt road and found Ren'dar kneeling next to something on the ground. A frayed, strewn mess of cloth, leather, and... bones.

Rachel turned her eyes away before she could discern anything worse.

“It is a dead courier,” Ren'dar said. “Dead at least a week. Two at the most. Bosmer, by the looks of him. But, he might have been Khajiit. And... there is a scroll.”

“What did it say?” asked Kynril.

Ren'dar's voice wavered. “This one does not know. He is not authorized to open it. He does not think you are, either.”

Rachel swallowed her nausea and looked back to watch Ren'dar pass a tightly rolled scroll to Kynril. And Kynril held the scroll almost reverently between his fingertips, his eyes not moving from the glossy, gold wax seal. “It's from the First Emissary.”

The mer began to pace.

“I could guess where this was going,” he said. “But to give it to just anyone, even Ondolemar, would risk it falling into the wrong hands.” He turned back to Ren'dar. “Is there anything else? Instructions?”

“Of course not,” the Khajiit said, and continued his inspection of the remains. Then he hissed. “Dark Moons. He _was_ Ohmes.”

Kynril looked at the scroll again. Then he wrapped it carefully in a spare cloth and placed it in his bag. “I'm sorry. Find anything you can of the body. We'll give him a proper funeral.”

–

The bones had showed evidence of a bobbed tail, and the fur on the clothing was far too fine and short to belong to any animal that would have picked at the corpse. Ohmes, Ren'dar explained as they watched the pyre burn, were easily mistaken for Bosmer, but entirely Khajiit.

“The Thalmor like Ohmes,” Ren'dar went on, scratching their last bottle of ale with a claw. “Almost good enough to be mer again. Almost the shape Alkosh intended, they say. Almost acceptable to walk among the High Elves. To wait on them. To polish their boots. To carry their mail. But this one does not envy the poor Ohmes. To die like this... so far north... in this damned cold.”

Kynril was busy trying again to light the campfire, before the sun sank past the mountains. Finally, after a minute, he managed to release a small burst of flame from his palm. The kindling caught instantly, and the smallest smile of triumph appeared on his face.

“The messenger paid with his life trying to deliver this,” Kynril said, as he sat down between Ren'dar and Rachel and unwrapped the scroll. The wax shimmered in the firelight. “His last days on the road will not be in vain.”

Ren'dar did not smile. “Dare I ask what you have in mind, Ja'Khajiit?”

Rachel wasn't sure what that meant, but Kynril's face showed irritation before turning into a mask. An almost perfect mask that she remembered him facing Ondolemar with, right down to the tension around his jaw.

Kynril slipped a nail under the wax and lifted it. He unrolled the paper carefully and read it. Then reread it. Then he sighed, gazed up at the stars for a minute, and read the scroll once more.

“As promised, there was some correspondence between Ondolemar and First Emissary Elenwen,” he said. “The First Emissary is... not satisfied with how Ondolemar dealt with the two of us, just as we suspected.”

Rachel listened to every word, and hugged her knees. Suddenly she was very aware of how cold the night was, and how vast and empty the plains at their back were, and how very large the looming Druadach Mountains were.

“She was replying to a very formal, written appeal for clemency, for us. And himself, by the sound of it. She was willing to consider it, under certain conditions. But obviously this letter never reached him.”

“So it looks like he's ignoring her?” Rachel asked.

“Possibly. And it doesn't help that he took the trouble to remove us from Markarth before sending word to her.”

“Well, we are going to Markarth,” said Rachel. “Shouldn't we take this straight to him? He'd think of something.”

Kynril rolled up the scroll. “I dare not delay the First Emissary further. Ondolemar was to send for us, then direct us to her. The Thalmor Embassy is our new destination, for his sake and ours.”

The familiarity in the situation was alarming. It reminded her of the days in Thalmor custody, of the wait she and Kynril had spent in the shrine of Talos. But instead of sitting and waiting to be judged, they were walking into judgment.

“We'll be killed! Ondolemar looks like a traitor now, and so do we. And traitors....”

“Better for us to arrive late, knowing what might happen to us, than to become disloyal and run and prove our guilt.” Kynril prodded the fire. “If we run, we'll be hunted down and dragged there instead. Or just killed out in the wilderness, where we won't bleed on everything.... But at least Third Emissary Rulindil won't be around for the fun. No, best to crawl there ourselves. It'll be less trouble for everyone involved.”

It was maddening, she thought. Maddening how stoically the others sat there while Kynril spoke of treason and death. How ready they were to walk to death. Or so she assumed, from Ren'dar's lack of objection.

Or maybe it wouldn't be that bad. They seemed calm enough.

Unless that was a ruse to keep everyone else calm.

Kynril split a loaf of bread into three pieces. They ate in silence and slept early that night.

–

From there, they altered their course and turned north. It was not a quiet walk to their imminent doom, as Rachel had expected. With the Reach on their left and the hills and plains of Whiterun on the other side, they spoke almost endlessly, only pausing to take a sip of water or catch their breath. And they would have quite a long time to talk; according to Kynril, the Thalmor Embassy was in the mountains over Solitude, overlooking not only the ancient city, but the Sea of Ghosts.

Thalmor Justiciar Kynril kept her mind busy by drilling rules of Altmeri etiquette into her, particularly etiquette as a human subject of Alinor and servant of the Thalmor.

“I'm aware of your... mannerisms, and I know this will be stressful,” Kynril said. “Looking away from the eyes of your betters is expected, but try to keep them low instead darting around. If you are questioned, answer honestly, respectfully, and it must be concise and useful. For your sake, try not to presume anything about what the Thalmor want from you.”

“Yeah, I really messed that up in Markarth didn't I,” Rachel said.

“'You are exceedingly lucky Markarth is my station',” said Ren'dar in a near perfect imitation of Ondolemar's speech.

“You couldn't have known then.” Kynril shrugged and adjusted his bag. “Oh, and I know we're still far away from the embassy but you might want to stay in the habit of addressing me as your lord when we're not around the Nords.”

“As you command, your lord.”

“That isn't funny.”

The lectures only paused when their voices began to grow hoarse, or as they found themselves settling down for a night or stepping back into civilization. The night in Rorikstead was a godsend, and with the comforts of hot food and a real bed she almost forgot her fears.

Escape began to look more appealing as they trudged northward and the air grew colder around them. And then she remembered the risk of being tracked down.

It was not long before a descent into lowlands signaled their arrival in Hjaalmarch, and they spread their bedrolls just in sight of the river.

“Just remember,” said Kynril. “You are truly remorseful for your heresy and wish to redeem yourself in the service of Mer and Auri-El.”

“Unless they caught onto Ondolemar's lies of your heresy and ask if you worshipped Talos at all,” Ren'dar added. “Then you say no, and you are remorseful for taking advantage of Aldmeri Dominion law, but eternally grateful to Ondolemar for risking his position to help you.”

Her head felt overstuffed with all the rules and protocols, but she supposed she could remember that.

“What about you, my lord?” she asked Kynril, as they settled down for sleep.

“Don't worry about me. Think of yourself.”

–

The Thalmor Embassy was two days away, if they walked quickly. Kynril seemed to decide that she had been taught enough on the trip, and was quiet while they crossed the river and passed through abandoned checkpoints. She used that silence to pray to Stendarr. To any divines that might be listening.

She was not sure how exactly prayers were supposed to be said. She assumed they involved silently begging the gods for help in times of need, which she had done at several points in her life.

But now that it mattered a lot, she wondered if there was a more formal, specific way to entreat the gods. Especially since this time she decided to try Auri-El.

_Hello, Auri-El. You're the same as Akatosh, right? I don't want to stop praying this early and bother Kyn to ask, so I hope that's fine. I mean Lord Kynril, I think. Is he really a lord?_

_I guess I should say thanks, for stopping the Oblivion Crisis, since I finally know about that. It was in a book I read. I hope being a statue isn't so bad. Or is it Martin Septim who became the statue?_

_Except the Thalmor said it was them who solved the Oblivion Crisis. If that is true, it was your will, if they're serving you, I guess. So thanks in any case._

If Auri-El had eyes, He was probably rolling them.

_Since I'm about to meet a bunch of Altmer who probably want to kill me, could you maybe tell them to not kill me? Or is that something I should ask Stendarr about?_

_Stendarr is an Aedra too, right? Can you pass that on? Not that you're a messenger or anything. On second thought I'll ask Stendarr again after this._

_Are you still the god of time, as Auri-El? If it's not too much trouble, maybe you could turn everything back? Change things somehow? I would give up a few days to not go to the embassy so soon. It's selfish, but_ –

Her prayer was cut short by a sharp pain in her leg. She cried out as she fell, as a searing burn spread up from her calf. It was all she could do to cast armor as the world begin to ebb and spin.

There were arrows. Arrows striking the ground around them. Ren'dar and Kynril shouting, drawing steel. Then, nothing.


	9. The Thalmor

“... up. Wake up.”

She could only whimper. Her entire body was pain and cold.

“Wake up. Wake up!”

A lightly furred palm tapped her face until she opened her eyes. The sun was too bright. And loud. Something made of glass pressed its way between her lips, followed by a bitter taste. She managed to swallow, and the world came into focus. The pain and cold did not fade.

“You must get up.” Ren'dar uncorked another phial with shaking hands. “We need to get help. The arrows were poisoned. That alone will not kill you, not _this_ poison, but if something else happens... ow... you can guess what happens.”

“W...What happened...? Where is Kynril?” she stammered.

“Missing. Now drink all of this. It will help you walk.”

Rachel pinched her nose and took the next potion. It burned her tongue and throat on the way down, but she felt some strength and warmth return. She managed to stand, and looked up and down the road. Arrows – including some that appeared to have been pulled out of their bodies by Ren'dar – and droplets of blood were scattered on the ground around them, but there was no sign of the mer who had led them there.

_Auri-El, if this is punishment for a bad prayer, I am so sorry, but please don't leave us like this._

There was no answer. None at all.

_Stendarr? Stendarr, please!_

Her eyes began to sting. She turned on her sore legs, hoping to see Kynril return, perhaps even from some battle with their attackers. “Did he  _die_ ?”

“This one hopes not,” Ren'dar said, bracing himself with his hands on his knees. “There is no body. No... ow... signs of a killing. Whoever attacked us... they might have taken him somewhere. He would not have walked away without us.”

He straightened up and scanned the area with tired, watering eyes. “There is just a bit of smoke blowing from the east. Just up these cliffs....”

They traced their path back down the road and found a slope. Then they climbed, one painful step at a time, up the steep hill toward the direction of the nearby fire, until they began to hear chatter in strong Nordic accents.

Ren'dar dropped to a crouch and motioned for her to do the same. Then he crept up behind a particularly large rock and peeked over it. His tail fur flared out.

The gods were cruel. They had apparently decided that if anything could go wrong on their travels from Whiterun, it would. That if any prayer were to be answered, it would be answered with suffering for daring to bother them.

Rachel did not have to wait more than a second to find out what had gone wrong this time, for their new difficulty announced itself at steel swordpoint.

They had found a Stormcloak camp, hidden away in the rocks of Hjaalmarch. And their scout had just found them.

Rachel was too tired to cast any spell, and weakly leaned away from the blade in her face.

“On your feet, witch. And you, cat.”

What followed was the most humiliating experience since she'd had the misfortune to meet the Thalmor. The Stormcloak captain they were led to, shoved to the ground before, was a man called Ingolf Sword-Breaker. Rachel could imagine why. Thick muscle bulged under his mail and blue tabard. And Ingolf was quick to decide they were Imperial spies. A lot of arguing and pleading ensued, while idle Stormcloaks gathered and watched and _laughed_.

“If you aren't spies,” Ingolf spat, “then what were you doing sneaking around my camp?”

“You might have been bandits,” Ren'dar tried to reason. “And we would not have known. Bandits would have killed us.... But you are not bandits. You are honorable sons of Skyrim, yes...?”

Rachel wanted to believe the desperation in his voice was fake, and that he had some plan to get them out of there. But in their condition....

“We were attacked,” Ren'dar went on. “We're wounded.... Our friend disappeared in the fight and we are weak from poison. And now this one begs for your help!”

Ingolf harrumphed.

“You, Breton!”

She started. The Nord might as well have been an angry bear, for the way he loomed and the snarl in his throat, not to mention the menace....

“You've been quiet this whole time. What do you have to say, woman?”

She closed her eyes and thought quickly. There was nothing to add, really. Nothing Ren'dar hadn't said. “Everything hurts....”

Mocking voices rose around them. And Rachel bit her lip to make sure every curse running through her thoughts remained unspoken.

“I don't trust either of you. But there's no glory in killing the half-dead,” Ingolf said. He turned to one of the Stormcloaks, who immediately quieted. “I want them patched up and cured of this poison.”

For one heart-freezing second she imagined that he would kill them both as soon as they were well.

“Then they're going to have a nice long stay here until they're ready to talk.”

–

They were made to disrobe, to dress in rags. Rachel was allowed to keep wearing the amulet Ondolemar had given her after telling their captors it was her tie to Stendarr. But she felt naked without her gloves.

Their possessions were thrown in a corner of the tent for the captain to inspect. Ingolf took his 'fee' for their trespass and imprisonment from Ren'dar's purse.

The camp's healer gave them a foul-smelling, equally bad-tasting potion to lessen the effects of the poisoned arrows. Then he checked their wounds, washed them with boiled water, and bound them.

Finally, they were left alone, but with no freedom and no privacy. They were tied to a stake in the ground by their wrists, in plain view of the tent's opening, guarded but ignored until it was time to eat or until the Stormcloaks remembered they had other bodily needs.

The days stretched out, long and tiresome. An exhaustion that Rachel had not known in ages crept into her muscle and bones. At least in the jail that was the Thalmor barracks, she had been allowed to move and stretch whenever she pleased.

There was not much to speak about. Nothing of the Thalmor could be said without giving themselves away to listening ears. She did not want to speak of Markarth, either.

Ren'dar did tell her the story of his and Kynril's journey into that barrow where they'd found the dragon tablet. Beyond the gates of Whiterun, it had taken them two days to find the town of Riverwood, where they learned that the dragon they'd heard mid-Last Seed had razed a town called Helgen. That in the chaos, Ulfric Stormcloak, who had somehow been captured and sent to be executed, made a 'daring escape, and so foiled the Thalmor and the Empire'.

That had nothing to do with Bleak Falls Barrow, where the restless dead walked. But he and Kynril had cut through dozens of draugr and thwarted many traps, until they made it to the end and a massive door with animal shapes on it.

At which point the mer, who had long studied ancient Nords, had realized they'd never found one of those dragon claws of legend for opening such doors. Which led to many colorful oaths regarding dragon anatomy, and picking their way back through the barrow as they searched for the key.

And once they had picked up the claw and opened the door, it was only a matter of killing a slightly stronger draugr and taking the tablet from its coffin. That tablet, of course, was what Kynril would copy and eventually deliver to Farengar. But first, he'd kept them there in the barrow a little while longer study a wall covered in ancient dragon writing. Because an opportunity like that was not to be wasted.

They'd found their way back to Riverwood, given the dragon claw to a shopkeeper, slept at the inn, and started the journey back to Whiterun. There was not much else to tell.

“I mostly practiced fighting and did errands for the Companions while you were gone,” Rachel said, trying to stretch her aching shoulders. “They even paid me.”

“Are you serious?”

With their backs to each other, Rachel could not tell if he was amazed or angry.

“And then I learned their history. 'Drove all the elves out of Skyrim', the way Farkas put it.”

“They let you hang around? They _paid_ you?”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn't they? They didn't mind us training there.”

“This one will explain when his limbs are not aching from all this sitting and these bonds.” He fidgeted. “So, when were you going to tell the elf this?”

“It didn't seem to matter.”

But gods, she would tell the mer everything about it, if for no other reason than to ease her conscience. She would tell him, as soon as they got away, as soon as they found him.

If they ever got away. If Kynril was alive at all.

She was glad that Ren'dar could not see her face. But she could not hide how her shoulders shook, or the muffled sobs that eventually followed.

–

Turning into a great, hairy werebeast started to become appealing. She found herself fantasizing about it. She could turn into a huge monster. The only clothes that would be damaged would be rags. And if her last transformation had destroyed a perfectly good blacksmith's tunic and trousers and even the hard leather boots on her feet, then it could almost certainly break her bonds. And then she could free Ren'dar, and he could grab their things while she mauled Stormcloaks, and they could escape.

It was only fantasy, of course. She didn't know how to make the transformation happen, and her last 'fight' as a werewolf involved scaring people and running away very fast. The Stormcloaks had to be made of more courage and discipline than simple mercenaries. And sure, her wolf hide had been strong enough to impede arrows and blades, but she had no wish to test it again.

But there was no harm in fantasizing. And if it turned into a matter of life and death, what choice did she have?

It might have to work. It would have to work.

A great blast and a panicked shout cut through her daydreams.

In seconds, everything outside their tent had turned to chaos. Rachel turned her head to see their guards draw swords and begin to charge. But there was a stomach-turning wet crack and the first guard fell, something long and golden sticking from his face. He and his fellow were blasted out of sight, embers and smoke trailing after them.

She looked away as a sharp taste filled her mouth. She could feel Ren'dar working his hands behind them, fumbling with their bindings, while the sounds of steel on steel and the screams of fighting and death tore at her ears. And so it went on for all of a minute.

The sound of boots on packed soil drew near, and a shadow fell over her. In the tent's entrance stood a sight she'd nearly grown used to seeing before: a fully armored Thalmor foot soldier, Altmeri armor glaring in the light. But his sword was drawn and still wet with blood, and his eyes were grim.

“Ack!” Rachel strained against her bonds and nearly twisted her leg trying to back away. “Wait! Please, don't–!”

But the Thalmor, seeing no threat inside their tent, turned and walked away.

Somewhere outside, Ingolf Sword-Breaker bellowed with rage, and was silenced in a matter of seconds. The last voice screamed a curse of Shor at all Elvenkind.

“Stay calm,” Ren'dar hissed. She had forgotten he was there. “Do you hear me? The battle is over now. Try to stay calm, and remember your studies.”

There was a lot of magicka, threatening and deadly. Shivering, Rachel chanced another look outside. There were bodies, of course, leathers and tabards stained with blood. There were armored mer pacing through the smoke and embers, prodding the dead with their boots. There were voices, calmly speaking. A mention of prisoners as the voices drew closer. And then a robed justiciar entered the tent, flanked by two of her (for Rachel quickly assumed she was in command) foot soldiers. Their weapons were sheathed this time.

Everything she had studied seemed useless. Everything except lowering her gaze. That she could do.

“Ah, a human with manners at last,” said their leader. “And a cat. You _have_ landed yourselves in a mess, haven't you?”

“Y-Yes,” Rachel squeaked. “We have. Sorry.”

“You're sorry? Do not presume to think that you have inconvenienced us. As if we would take the time to come here for _this_.”

“I... I mean...”

“Please, forgive the Breton,” Ren'dar said. “She is inexperienced, like a new kitten. But the amulet she is wearing... it will explain.”

One of the soldiers stepped closer and reached down, and Rachel felt cold elven metal brush her neck. The justiciar turned the amulet over in his fingers.

“A chalice and... a bear trap,” he said.

“Ah. One of Ondolemar's strays,” said the leader. “The werewolf and Ren'dar, I presume?”

“Yes, my lady.” Ren'dar fidgeted again.

“Explain this mess.”

“We were walking to the Thalmor Embassy, but we were ambushed and left for dead. Then the Stormcloaks captured us. It has been three days since they put us in here.”

“There should be another with you. Where is Justiciar Kynril?”

“He disappeared after the ambush, my lady. It happened just west this hill, by the river. Poisoned arrows were fired from the other side. We haven't seen him since.”

If the Thalmor planned a rescue for Kynril, Rachel did not know. But the robed justiciar did not waste another moment deciding what to do with them. Rachel froze as a sharp gaze fell upon her again.

“Take these two into custody,” the justiciar said. “They are to go straight to the First Emissary.”

–

They had, at least, been allowed to collect their supplies from the corner of the tent and get properly dressed again. Rachel's robes were torn and there was still dried blood in them, but they were warm and their weight was a comfort. But her hands were bound, like Ren'dar's, and she was placed under a spell that she had never experienced before.

She didn't find out just what effect the spell had until the next day, when after a night in the village of Dragon Bridge they began to climb higher into sparsely forested coastal mountains. As the cold north winds began to blow over them, she could not draw her own robes closer; by the time they turned to ascend higher into the mountains and reached snow, she could no longer take it. A modified armor spell might be as good as any cloak, especially if she could put some warmth into it....

She could not reach her magicka.

The Thalmor had ways of managing captured mages, it seemed. If Ondolemar had never bothered to use them, or if she just hadn't thought of using magic back then, she was not sure.

Finally, as the sun began to sink again, they arrived. The high walls and gates vaguely reminded Rachel of the old fortresses they had passed on the roads. But it was in much better shape, clearly more recently built. And the stonework, the tiled arched roofs, and the shapes of the buildings were distinctly different from anything she had seen yet in Skyrim.

But they were not in Skyrim anymore. Her mind was dragged back to her situation as soon as their captors opened the door into one of the larger buildings. And she felt numb in spite of its warmth; this was it, this was where she was going to meet the dreaded Elenwen at last, where her fate would be decided.

It was different experience from being led into the Thalmor barracks in Markarth. Instead of indifference, she was greeted with scornful, knowing stares. It was a relief to walk out of that first wide room and into the halls, where there was only more intricate stonework and an out-of-place floral scent on the air.

At least Ren'dar was still around. She edged closer to him. But the unspoken demand for their silence lessened the comfort of his presence.

In minutes they had stepped out another door, back into the biting cold, and crossed the snow-covered lawn to another building.

Remember your reading, Rachel thought. But nothing she recalled seemed useful for meeting an emissary. Maybe she could get away with copying Ren'dar.

She did not have to do anything. They were not greeted by the First Emissary, but by another mer. A bearded mer who gave them only a brief glance before directing the guards to lead them away from the Emissary's office and down a flight of stairs.


	10. The High Aldarch

Rachel had never been inside a torture chamber before. Luckily, torture did not happen. She and Ren'dar were silently treated to the threat of torture, just from the very presence of a rack, and an assortment of tools that looked horrible even at a glance. Then their things were once again confiscated, they were made to wash, and finally, as she had grown to expect, they were given plain prisoner garb and locked in a cell to wait.

She did not know how long they were going to wait. Their portion of bread came, and Ren'dar explained that it was a good sign; the Thalmor did not waste food on people they did not need.

Soon, she guessed, night had fallen. The Khajiit drifted into a quiet sleep, sitting up with his back against the wall, and she tried to get comfortable on the cold floor.

Above, the door creaked open. Rachel looked at Ren'dar again; he had opened one bright, glowing green eye. As the sounds of footsteps drew near, he closed it again and pretended to snore. Rachel put her head back down and waited. Someone approached their door, and turned a key in the lock.

“Her Excellency will deal with you tomorrow.”

And then someone's bare feet slapped the cool stone floor as they were shoved in. The door was shut and locked again, and the sound of elven boots gradually left.

Rachel opened her eyes and saw the shape of a mer in ragged clothing standing over them.

“By the twin moons, you're alive!” Ren'dar whispered.

“Hello, Ren'dar. Rachel.”

She stifled a yelp of surprise, then sat up to get a better look at him.

Kynril winced as he sat down. His arms, neck, and face did not look visibly injured, from what she could tell in the poor light, but he was paler than she remembered and there were shadows under his eyes. The braid had come out of his hair, which hung limp past his shoulders. He groaned and leaned back against the wall.

“Kyn! I... I mean... my lord,” Rachel whispered. And then she wondered how to articulate her relief. “It's... good you aren't dead?”

“I share your sentiment,” Kynril yawned. “How on Nirn did you survive?”

“We found some Stormcloaks,” Ren'dar said. “They took us prisoner. Healed our wounds. Then the Thalmor found the Stormcloaks, killed them, and took us prisoner. At the rate we are being imprisoned, we should be careful if we leave this place.”

“What happened to you?” Rachel asked.

“I... I woke up in a cave full of Falmer. And once I stopped feeling dizzy and sick, they had me dress in bug shells and rags, and then they started giving me food.” Kynril folded his arms across his chest. “I don't know what in hells they expected from me, after what they did.”

“Falmer,” Rachel repeated in disbelief.

“Yes. Falmer. Or goblins made from Falmer, damn the Dwemer.”

“How did you escape, then?”

The mer let out a long breath. “Thalmor. They stormed the caves, and nearly killed me too. Once they realized what happened, I was arrested. Turns out, the First Emissary had just issued orders to capture on sight. Actually....” Kynril scratched his chin. “They mentioned they captured you earlier in the day, and that you, Ren'dar, pointed them in my direction. Thanks.”

Ren'dar shrugged. “That you are alive is enough for both of us. Assuming you can talk to First Emissary into letting us all leave with our lives, that is.”

“Believe me, I would have tried if I'd seen her. But the hour is late, and she was too busy to deal with me when they brought me in.” Kynril shifted. “Sleep now if you can. You'll need your wits later.”

–

First Emissary Elenwen was not pleased.

Kynril, Ren'dar, and Rachel knelt upon the floor of their cell, while the mer tried to offer apologies and explanations. He related the details of their departure from Markarth, the letter they'd received from Ondolemar, and his change of plans when they'd found the courier.

Elenwen did not take her eyes off his face. “So, you disobeyed an order from your commander and came here without informing him, or sending advance notice to me.”

Kynril paled. “I....”

Rachel fidgeted.

“And you did not think I would make further attempts to contact Ondolemar myself, or that he would receive them and reply with due haste?”

Kynril fell silent. Rachel wondered how in hells the Thalmor managed to send letters so quickly; it had to have been two weeks since they'd left Whiterun. What sort of part had the Ohmes played in it?

“Have you considered that even now your commander is waiting in Markarth, having prepared to send you to me himself?”

I told you, Rachel thought to herself. I told you. And you got us all almost killed for this. And we're going to die now. Thanks a lot, Kyn.

“I was thoughtless in my haste to see your will obeyed, and foolish to presume your will,” Kynril said, voice trembling. “I came here to beg your forgiveness. It seems I have all the more reason to do so now.”

“And again more reason,” said Elenwen. “For while Ondolemar has promised me that you are nothing but an asset to the Thalmor, your crimes in Markarth mark you and this Breton as a potential threat that I will not overlook.”

“I feared as much.” Kynril bowed his head. “Please, my lady, we have no intention of defying you, or the Dominion.”

“We'll see. Let's start with the werewolf.”

Rachel flinched as the First Emissary turned her gaze on her. She looked at the others for help; Ren'dar shook his head slightly while Kynril raised an eyebrow.

“Thought the justiciar would answer all the questions, did you?” Elenwen sounded amused. “You will speak in your own defense. Let's begin with a simple question. Why would a Breton of Markarth like yourself worship Talos?”

She hesitated. She had _hoped_ that would not come up, and did not have any explanation for _why_ other than that it had been a ruse.

“Answer me truthfully, girl, and I may be merciful.”

Her mind, scrambling for the right words, recalled Ren'dar's advice from days ago. To answer with honesty in case the First Emissary suspected a lie. He was right; to be caught in a fresh lie would be worse than admitting an old one. Or so Rachel hoped when she finally opened her mouth.

“I... I never worshipped Talos, Your Excellency.... My lord, the commander, he was generous. He... well, he shielded me from the Nords for as long as he suspected me....”

She chanced a look at the First Emissary's face. A corner of Elenwen's lips twitched. “You deceived Ondolemar?”

A trap? Rachel thought quickly. 'No' was obviously the right answer, but to make it sound good to a very important Thalmor.... “I could never deceive him, my lady.”

“Explain your lycanthropy.”

The change of subject was jarring.

“I don't understand it. I've been a werewolf as long as I can remember. But... uh... I'm in full control of myself when I change,” Rachel added hopefully. “And... it hurts when I touch silver.”

“Tell me why you serve Ondolemar and this excuse for a justiciar.”

That was a little easier to answer. “I owe them my life. I'm... uh... I'm also a subject of Alinor now. That's what the commander said. And I'm just a human. So–”

“That will do,” said Elenwen. “You are fortunate that you decided to admit your innocence regarding the false god. Ondolemar confessed that he stretched protocol to his advantage. And it is he who is responsible for that, regardless of your own knowledge. We'll decide who holds your leash after I deal with your master.”

Rachel could have fallen over, the weight of her situation lifted at last. But there was still Kynril's problem, her insides cramped as the First Emissary began to question him.

“So, you received a false blessing from a shrine of Talos, and now you are Dragonborn? Interesting.”

That had been her fault, Rachel remembered, with another twist in her gut. “Please, Your Excellency, he was only trying to–”

“Be silent, Breton.”

Rachel closed her mouth and contemplated her knees.

“I apologize for my servant's outburst,” Kynril said. “But she meant to speak the truth. As a justiciar, I attempted to save her from her own heresy, faked as it was. But my hand brushed the shrine of Talos. Now I seem to be the what humans call Dragonborn. And my power appears to be connected to the dragons ravaging these lands.”

“You're not making a very good case for your life.”

“I would offer this power to the Aldmeri Dominion,” Kynril tried. “These dragons must be complicating our interests in Skyrim....”

“I hope your power goes beyond barbaric shouting, justiciar. What do you have to offer me that a drunken Nord could not accomplish?”

And before Kynril could say anything along the lines of 'I eat dragon souls', they were interrupted by a new voice. A softer voice in an unmistakable Alinoran accent. A voice that warmed the chilly dungeons.

“Forgive my intrusion, Madame Ambassador, but this young mer may have more to offer than he realizes. Will you permit me to speak with him?”

A flicker of surprise crossed Elenwen's face. “Of course, Your Eminence. I shall leave the justiciar to your judgment.”

Rachel looked at Kynril for explanation. His eyes had gone wide. And he did not look at her, but stared over her head at the brick wall of their cell, focused so intently that he might have been trying to see through it. The dreaded First Emissary _bowed_ before someone and walked away.

A tall Altmer stepped into view, white robes hemmed with gold flowing down to his feet. He wore no armor. But at his hip was a sword, one with a jeweled silvery hilt, safely in an ornate green and white scabbard.

Kynril's gasp was barely audible. He and Ren'dar bowed low where they knelt, and Rachel quickly did the same, wondering what mer could be so important that even Elenwen would stand down.

“I sense your confusion, child of Stendarr.” His voice was like a mild breeze or the touch of the Second Seed sun. “I see your master has tried to prepare you for life among Altmer. But you could not have expected the presence of a High Aldarch. Do not be afraid. You may look upon me.”

Rachel slowly raised her head. Her eyes moved up silk robes to meet his; a vivid gold, framed by lighter hair that fell past his shoulders. The High Aldarch smiled; she lowered her eyes swiftly to his boots. They were polished.

“You are overwhelmed,” said the High Aldarch. “I understand.”

He addressed Kynril instead. “You face a great challenge, justiciar. To carry such power, held sacred by Men, associated with Talos and wielded by one of their treacherous kings.... It is no small burden. Your fears are understandable. But consider this. A long-dead man who could not have ascended would never be able to grant this power. To acknowledge the possibility is heresy.”

Kynril said nothing.

“I suspect that in your fear, your mind has entertained such thoughts.”

“I was afraid that if it wasn't Talos,” Kynril said in a near whisper, “the Missing God himself snatched me from the light of Auri-El.”

“You are forgiven, Kynril. And for your ease of mind, have you considered Stendarr, who perhaps smiled upon you as you lowered yourself to defend a human?” the High Aldarch continued. “Or perhaps Auri-El, who mortals fear and worship even while they think of dragons and Dragonborn emperors?”

Nothing.

“We cannot say that this power has not resided within you during your forty-nine years, waiting to make itself known on that fateful night. For your departed father was once heir to one of the oldest houses of Aldmeris, and you carry yet more mystery in your blood.”

Rachel looked at Kynril. Him? A noble? Weeks of his anxiety, the things he had said to her and Ren'dar, were explained.

But the mer did not look especially regal. He had blanched, and he clenched the rough fabric of his trousers.

“I do not deny your words, Your Eminence. I would believe it if it were my cousin. Not me.”

“Your willingness to believe it cannot undo this truth.”

“I am a servant of Alinor. And I have erred. I am not worthy of this burden....”

“If a divine hand is at play, you have already been deemed worthy,” said the High Aldarch. “And any mortal in your position is certain to err at times. Or do you still carry doubts? Fears of false gods of Man, and their pull on your loyalty to the Dominion?”

Kynril's eyes flickered shut, and he buried his face in one hand.

“Your service to Alinor does not need to end here, Kynril. Your devotion is clear and your heart is pure. I will not condemn you.” The High Aldarch watched as the mer wept at his feet. “If you truly fear you are cursed, you may find peace and redemption in dedication to Auri-El.”

“How?” Kynril's voice cracked and shook. “Please, Your Eminence.... What could I offer? What would you ask of me?”

And the High Aldarch smiled. “You have already suggested it to the First Emissary. Skyrim, and the Aldmeri Dominion's position here, are at risk as long as the threat of rampaging dragons remains. You have the unique power to check that threat. And I believe I could be of assistance.”

–

Kynril was reluctant to speak for the rest of the day. By evening, perhaps with the High Aldarch's intervention, the First Emissary had decided he, Rachel, and Ren'dar had spent enough time in the cells. They were given a change of clothes and sent to the embassy barracks.

It was decidedly nicer than the one in Markarth. Crates and shelves overflowed with food, not that Rachel could touch it unless it was given. More beds, all made of wood. Not that she was allowed in a bed. More flowers. But those made Ren'dar sneeze.

There was more privacy for changing clothes. Wooden screens. A small comfort that the Thalmor did not bar her from, that she was grateful for after that humiliating bath. She put on her washed, repaired robes in peace.

Kynril's armor had gone missing after his capture by the Falmer. So, he was provided with a deep blue tunic, trousers, and new boots. No robe, he explained to Rachel, as he sat on his new bed, while she and Ren'dar took up part of the floor. A robe would make him look like a wizard and only lead to grief.

Kynril slipped them a spare blanket and pillows. And she pondered what he'd meant. Before setting foot in the Thalmor Embassy, she had assumed that robed Thalmor were all officers. But no, Kynril explained, they were wizards. And while all Thalmor were expected to know some magic, their wizards and battlemages excelled. Mastery of the arcane brought mer closer to Aetherius and their ancestors, the gods. And so, wizards were more likely to inspire respect than foot soldiers.

They were also much more likely to blast people thirty feet into the air with a fireball, Ren'dar pointed out in a low voice. And morbid as that thought was, Kynril managed a weak smile.

Kynril was not very magical. His grasp of the arts certainly surpassed her own. But he demonstrated little magic except for scaring off spiders. He struggled with simple fire spells. He summoned mage lights by accident.

He'd always been good at explaining the theory, she thought as her mind wandered back to Jorrvaskr.

And as her mind returned to the Companions, Rachel remembered the promise she'd made to herself.

“I sort of forgot this, but I swore I'd tell you something if we ever got away from those Stormcloaks.”

Kynril's brow wrinkled. “Did something happen to you?”

“Not exactly,” Rachel said. “I just didn't tell you what happened in Whiterun when you were out.”

“Ah. Well, what was it?”

“You know the Companions?”

“ _Those_ Companions?” Kynril frowned. “Ysgramor's? Please don't tell me you joined them.”

“Oh, by the Nine, no.”

There was some movement in the barracks and nearby chatter stopped. Rachel looked around to see no less than four nearby Altmer scowling at her from where they sat.

Kynril sighed. “Oh, for Stendarr's grace. Ignore the poor girl. Her time among the Nords was not kind to her.”

Rachel pulled the hood of her robes back up as the rest of the barracks went back to minding their own damned business.

“I should introduce you to the rest of the Aedra,” Kynril whispered. “Help you understand Altmeri customs.... Give you some new profanities to shock Altmer with.”

“Do any of them by chance involve a dragon's scaly taint?”

“I... see you've already begun learning. But what happened with Ysgramor's accursed hounds?”

“They paid me to do errands,” Rachel said. “Didn't tell me about Ysgramor until later. Couldn't believe I didn't figure it out before then.”

“You are brave to tell me this, especially in present company. But why was it important?”

“I'd just never told you. Ren'dar told me about your trip to Riverwood to pass the time we spent with the Stormcloaks. I'd never told you what I'd been doing either. And... that reminds me. Ren'dar, you mentioned something about the Companions and me?”

The Khajiit's ears perked up. “Ah. Yes. But this one is tired now. Perhaps he can tell you after sleep?”

“I'm curious myself,” Kynril said.

“Well, all right. This one was confused that the Companions, of all the mer-hating Nords, would keep company with a Breton.”

Rachel stared at him. “I'm... a human. Bretons are humans.”

Ren'dar's smile bared teeth. “Humans with Altmeri ancestors. No, no, don't get any ideas. You are completely human.”

Ah, yes. The 'people might be listening' smile. She had learned it quickly in Markarth.

Rachel looked at Kynril as curiosity and interest rose.

And the mer was alarmed. “Oh. Oh, no. I don't have any books with me that touch this one.”

“Well what do you know about it?” Rachel asked.

Kynril bit his lip.

“Please, my lord, everything in Markarth is about Dwemer and Nords,” she said, “and all I know about the other Bretons in the city... well... most of the other Bretons... you know... the Reachmen... is they mostly hate Nords. And the Nords hate us.”

Kynril relented. “The history of High Rock is... murky. At best. But the union of Nedic and Altmeri blood dates back to the Merethic Era, during Elven rule of Tamriel. And Bretons are the result of that union in High Rock. Human, with a strong affinity for magic. But certainly no power to rival their ancestors,” Kynril added, eyes flicking around the room.

That was a lot to take in.

“Does... everyone else already know about this?”

“It is fairly common knowledge, especially in Skyrim. They conquered all High Rock once, before being driven out. It is said that Bretons and Altmer of High Rock allied against the First Empire of the Nords. But Nords have always resented _anyone_ with a trace of elven blood.”

Grim as the history was, it was a relief to hear Kynril speak, after his long silence.

“As for Markarth,” he went on, “the Reach and their trouble with Nords also dates back thousands of years. Everything in these mountains, from this very embassy to Markarth and still further south, was once part of High Rock. And Nords are fond of conquest. Out of all High Rock, the Reach has the longest history with Nordic conquerors. They've overthrown them before. But the Nords returned, one way or another.”

“The Reachmen never stopped rebelling against the Nords,” Ren'dar said. “It was just before you were born. During the First War Against the Empire, the Reachmen overthrew the Nords in Markarth. You can thank us for distracting Imperial forces.”

“After the war ended and the White-Gold Concordat was signed, Ulfric Stormcloak recaptured the city,” Kynril added. “His crimes against the Bretons were terrible. That you were even born was lucky. The so-called Bear of Markarth had no mercy for the Reachmen who'd taken the city, or any who supported them. Those who could escape the city fled into the mountains and became Forsworn. The ones the Silver-Bloods didn't create, anyway.”

“Ren'dar still remembers it. Ulfric Stormcloak issued an ultimatum. He would not end the horrors in Markarth until the Empire promised free worship of Talos there. Thought he could keep that a secret from us. Heh.”

How old was the Khajiit, Rachel wondered. By her own age (or the rough guess she had at her age), she knew, the things in Markarth had to be twenty-four, maybe twenty-five years ago. And Ren'dar seemed no less youthful than her. Perhaps Khajiit aged differently, like mer.

“The Stormcloak was arrested,” Ren'dar said. “Allowed to return to Windhelm as a gesture of good will. And the Thalmor moved in, to make sure such a thing would never happen to Markarth again.”

“Not because of the White-Gold Concordat?” Rachel asked.

“Well, of course there was also that.”

Rachel looked up at Kynril. “If I may ask, my lord....”

“No, I wasn't there. If that's what you're wondering. My training had not even been completed yet. And I was in Cyrodiil until a few years ago.”

“Wait a minute.” Rachel looked between them. “Both of you were around for years, and I never saw either of you in the keep?”

“This one is good at his job.” Ren'dar's smile reached his eyes for the first time in days.

“The Thalmor do not fraternize with the locals,” Kynril said.

“And that is why the justiciar never spoke to you, or lent you books, or tried to comfort you while you were in custody.”

Kynril glared at him.

Something clicked. Rachel reached under her robes and pulled out Ondolemar's amulet again. The chalice of Stendarr gleamed in the candle light. She turned the amulet over.

“How long has the commander been in Markarth?” she asked.

“Twenty-five years,” Ren'dar said.

Rachel ran her thumb over the other inscription. “And his sigil is a _bear_ trap.”

“Best if that remains secret,” Kynril told her. “You don't want the Nords to stop mistaking it for something else, like half an apple.”

Rachel snorted and flipped the amulet back over to the chalice.

Stendarr. It seemed Altmer worshipped him as well, if he was so important that the High Aldarch and Kynril brought him up.

There were new things she wanted to know. Things that she never would have learned in Markarth, as much as she missed the city and her place at the forge. Things that she could not stop wondering about, now that Ren'dar and Kynril had revealed them.

“I hope this isn't asking too much, my lord,” she said. “When I... uh... signed that confession, and you gave me that etiquette book, I thought it would be appropriate to... try to offer a few prayers to Altmeri gods. But I'm not sure how to start, or who to worship, and I might have insulted Auri-El a few times.”

Kynril opened his mouth, but decided against whatever he was going to say and closed it again.

Rachel shifted nervously. “So... If it's no trouble... maybe...?”

“Are you... requesting instruction?” Kynril asked her. “You are not mer, and the Bretons long ago abandoned the Aedra for the Alessian Divines. Those west of the Reach, anyway....”

“Well....” In truth, she wasn't sure. But who else was there?

“Perhaps I can teach you a few things about proper worship, in the interest of your service to Mer. And... I think the precursors of the Bretons gave up their own gods for Aedra too.”

“Or you can ignore it,” Ren'dar said. “Most Khajiit do, and we have served the Third Aldmeri Dominion for nearly a hundred years.”

Rachel turned back to him. “Is there something special about Khajiiti history and Altmer too?”

Ren'dar grinned. “No.”

–

Kynril became absent again. Rachel only knew that whatever he was doing, it involved the notes he'd copied from that dragon tablet and other things that survived his period with the Falmer. It was a few tense days before he spoke much of what he'd been up to.

“It is as the High Aldarch said.” Kynril nearly collapsed on his bed one night. “Soon, I'm leaving the embassy to continue working on these dragons plaguing Skyrim. As for you....”

Kynril hesitated, and Rachel dreaded whatever he was going to say. And so did Ren'dar, from the looks of his ears. Were they to stay behind? Or had the tolerance of the Thalmor Embassy run out?

“It is my duty to inform you that the First Emissary has officially approved of Ondolemar's sentencing for you. Your 'heresy' has been pardoned, but your lycanthropy and escape record remain. Your life of penance will continue.”

And suddenly the barracks seemed a little brighter, for the relief that swept over her.

“It is the High Aldarch's will,” he slowly went on, “that you continue to accompany me, instead of returning to Ondolemar as I would have asked you to do for your own protection. You too, Ren'dar.”

“This one has no objections,” said Ren'dar. “You will find us helpful. Not that I would dare object to His Eminence, of course.”

“Where are we going first?” Rachel asked.

“Well, I'm sure all of us fancy returning to Dragon Bridge and the roads south of town. Which is why we're going to see if we can't convince a vessel to give us passage east instead.”

“East? Do you mean...?”

“I'll explain later,” Kynril said. “But I assure you, it doesn't involve Windhelm.”


	11. Solitude

To Rachel, the next morning was a whirlwind of surprises. They were up before dawn, and they were all outfitted with armor, plain in appearance but elven-craft. Kynril needed a replacement after losing his, and Rachel and Ren'dar had lacked armor to begin with.

For her, it was a set of silvery mail to be worn between simple linen clothes and a mage's robe. The mail, thankfully, was not silver, but an alloy of steel and moonstone that she had never imagined possible. And the way it moved was unearthly; the rings folded as easily as cloth, slid smoothly over her hands, and fit her body closely, but without restriction or discomfort.

It was a height of Altmeri craft, according to Kynril. A rare treasure of arcane elven smithing, befitting one chosen for the High Aldarch's service. One that responded well to the magicka of the wearer, fitting itself to the body regardless of their size or magical prowess.

It felt like theft to wear such a thing, Rachel thought. The quality and beauty of the armor, too much for an apprentice smith to lay hands on, let alone a human. The reason she had to wear it weighed on her more than any steel cuirass she'd forged.

But among Altmer, it was not done to refuse such a gift. Especially not when it was a gift from a great mer such as the High Aldarch. A gift given in exchange for her service to him. To refuse would have been insult, to him and his greatness, to his generosity, to his judgment in assigning her to Kynril.

She was grateful that it had not been given in person. That Kynril had placed it in her hands, in the relative privacy of the barracks, and spared her the ordeal of deciding whether or not the first polite, humble refusal was required, or even appropriate.

And as for Kynril, he was given a light moonstone-steel plate with a faint white glow. It had been fashioned to resemble human armor more than anything the Thalmor wore, lacking the eagle motifs that would have given him away.

Ren'dar received fitted leather, with chain made of the same alloy. He took it with hesitation, but seemed pleased that the rings made no sound when he moved.

Then there were other pieces of equipment. Kynril needed a new blade; like his armor, the sword he'd purchased from Ghorza had been lost in the Falmer cave. The fact that he had no shield was corrected as well. Ren'dar was given a bow of Valenwood oak. And Rachel kept the shield Ghorza gave her, though her sword was sharpened.

Kynril wrote a letter to Ondolemar. The mer spent several minutes reading it, re-reading it, biting his lip and adding more to the end. Rachel was not sure of the contents, but had a few guesses about what was going inside. It was probably tales of their trip, or an explanation of things that had gone wrong, or an apology. Maybe all of them.

When he was finally satisfied, the letter was entrusted to a Bosmeri servant.

The three had gathered rations and gold and were prepared to leave when the High Aldarch stopped them to bestow blessings of Aetherius.

At long last, they left the Thalmor Embassy.

It was barely mid-morning. They walked the same stretch of mountain path they had climbed only days ago. This time, Rachel felt the air warm, saw the snow drifts grow smaller until they were patches on the ground and the great Karth River delta came into sight below. The road became cobblestone again, and they turned east.

They marched until Ren'dar complained that they'd been walking a long time and he was hungry, and Rachel joined him in pestering the mer.

“All right, all right,” Kynril grinned and walked a few paces off the road. “We'll eat here.”

It took a few minutes of sitting there, alternating between bites of beef and dried apple, for Rachel to realize it. They were no longer walking to certain doom at the hands of the Thalmor, or sitting among the other Thalmor. It was safe to _talk_ during meals again.

“So, where are we going?” she asked again.

“Oh, thank the stars you asked, I forgot to tell you,” Kynril sighed. He looked up and down the road. “We're heading to some old Nordic crypt by the sea in the Pale. His Eminence has located an artifact that he is sure will help us manage this dragon crisis.”

“He's going to stop all these dragons?” Rachel said in disbelief. “Well, I guess if nobody else is....”

She chewed a large bite of her beef, and thought a moment. Something was off.

“I thought stopping dragons was your job,” she said after finally swallowing.

“Of course it is. His Eminence is just lending his aid.”

“Skyrim getting help from Alinor? Better not tell the Stormcloaks. But... what's the artifact?”

“A mask,” Kynril said. “A mask worn by an ancient dragon priest.”

He watched her, as if hoping to see recognition. Something about the idea was familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd heard it before.

“Those ancient Atmoran cultists who believed they could gain eternal life,” Kynril went on. “It was detailed in _Amongst the Draugr_ , remember?”

It took her a second, but she did. Yes, those dragon priests. The dragon priests who were undead. The dragon priests, whose undead servants sacrificed part of their being to grant extended undeath to them, then regenerated their souls over time and repeated the process. Those dragon priests.

“Oh. Ohhhh. Yep. I remember now.”

“The dragon priests were the ancient Nords' link between Man and dragons,” Kynril went on. “The Nords worshipped the dragons. And the dragon priests were responsible for maintaining peace and order. Their power rivaled that of the kings, and the most important priests wore masks of great power, granted to them by the dragons. But at some point in the late Merethic Era, common Nords and their kings clashed with the dragon priests, their cult, and dragons themselves. The dragon worshippers, the Dragon Cult as they came to be known, were eventually destroyed, but their legacy remains.

“The High Aldarch believes that the masks of the dragon priests will give us a way to check the power of the dragons,” Kynril said. “We need to find eight of them.”

“Eight masks, surely waiting in eight dangerous crypts,” Ren'dar said. “Probably all over Skyrim?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Khenarthi, help us....”

Rachel tried to imagine it. Kynril, with eight masks. Somehow stacked on his face. Or did he have to wear them at all?

“So how are you going to use them?” she asked.

“Oh! I'm not going to use them,” Kynril said, and her stomach churned a little. “That's up to the High Aldarch.”

She started at him, and noticed Ren'dar doing the same. But Kynril's face was confused, surprised that she'd asked.

“A mer like me, using ancient power like that? No. I'm merely his hand in this.”

“So we're going to fight a bunch of undead Nords?” Rachel asked. “And the priests are really powerful?”

“Nothing we can't manage,” Ren'dar said.

“I almost wish His... uh... Eminence would come with us.”

“Doubtless the dragon priests would be no match for his holy might,” Kynril shrugged. “But he must oversee so many matters that it is more prudent for him to remain behind.”

Doubt it, she thought. How could a powerful elven priest shove this on us and not even offer more help? At least Ondolemar had a reason to stay in Markarth....

She stopped herself there. Of course the High Aldarch was helping. He's given Kynril his instructions. He'd gifted them with new amor and weapons. At least, the others had new weapons....

“What about that huge dragon? Alduin?”

Kynril stared out at the bay. “Well, there's the hard part. You know how I absorb dragon souls? Alduin is a... fairly more powerful dragon, to be sure. But the rules should be the same. The High Aldarch will be exploring a more effective way to deal with the threat. All I need to do is... kill the thing.”

–

Kynril was quick to find a Thalmor vessel at the docks. It was huge, gleaming with crystal ornaments in the wood, boasting the brightest white and gold sails. It was also the only one guarded by Altmer and crewed by Bosmer and Khajiit.

“I request a meeting with the captain,” Kynril told the guard, a taller, sterner mer in ornate moonstone armor.

“Captain's busy.”

“When will they be available? I must put in a formal request for passage.”

“We don't just ferry justiciars and their pets around,” the guard sneered.

Kynril faltered. “I... can pay.”

“Of course you can.” And the guard's face made it clear that he would _not_ accept pay, and that Kynril was quickly losing any chance he had to persuade him. “Now, off with you.”

“Look, I didn't want to use this,” Kynril lowered his voice, “but I am the Dragonborn, and I am here on business from His Eminence, the High Aldarch of Alinor. I'm here to request your captain's aid, not–”

“And I'm the High Kinlord of Firsthold.”

Rachel looked at Kynril; the tips of his ears flushed. Ren'dar became interested in the ropes coiled around the dock's columns.

“You want to use this ship?” the guard said. “Go take it up with headquarters, in the city. Come back with clearance. Then maybe the captain will see you.”

And that was how they did not acquire passage to the Pale on that day.

Thankfully, by headquarters, the guard did not mean the embassy all the way back up the mountain. Instead, he meant a castle tower, in one of the far corners of Solitude.

It took them some time to reach it, between trudging up the walled road into the city and then navigating the crowded market streets. Castle Dour itself was large and had many guarded entrances, so it was another matter to find the one flanked by Thalmor.

And when they finally faced the guards at the headquarters doors, they were met with a new problem.

The guards, who at first wore imposing glares, displayed shock when Kynril tried to explain his obstacle at the docks. And that only worsened when he described the ship that had turned him away.

“You can't be serious,” said the one on the left, her eyes slowly widening beneath her helmet.

“Hold on. Do you have some identification?” asked the second guard.

Kynril drew a thin scroll from his bag and handed it to the guard. He read it, seemed satisfied, and returned it.

“Well, you should know there are no Dominion ships docked in Solitude today, Thalmor or otherwise,” the guard said, as his fellow hurried away. “I'm sure you are eager to return to your business, but I must ask you to stay here until we have every detail of what you saw in the harbor.”

“Of... of course.” Kynril looked at Rachel, then Ren'dar. “Are these two free to leave?”

“If they remain in the city, yes.”

“Let's meet at the inn near the gates,” Kynril said to Ren'dar. “If I'm not back by night, just... get dinner and a room without me.”

Justiciar Kynril disappeared into the Thalmor headquarters with the guard.

There was no point in delaying. Evening was approaching fast, she and Ren'dar were getting hungry again, and all her strength had suddenly faded. They found the Winking Skeever, where they immediately bought dinner. After filling her belly with stewed meat and vegetables, she collapsed into bed. The softest bed ever....


	12. The Lady

When she woke up, Kynril was there, sitting in civilian clothes in a padded chair by the wall, pulling a plain pair of hide boots over his feet. Their eyes met; Kynril blinked and then frowned at the floor.

“Things at headquarters are going to take longer than I thought,” he muttered. “But with luck it'll be over by tomorrow.”

“What?” Rachel sat up, rubbed her brow as her head cleared. “What's... what's going on?”

“I can't go into details here. I'm sorry. I'll pay the innkeeper for another day. Sleep as long as you need.”

He took his bag and left, closing the door behind him.

Ren'dar sighed from where he slumped at the table, and sleepily took a gulp from his tea.

“What time is it?”

“An hour after sunrise?” Ren'dar yawned, revealing long teeth, and a longer tongue. “Who knows....”

There was a silent moment, in which Khajiit scratched the fur of his chin, then examined his claws.

“This one has an idea,” he said, inspecting his other hand.

“Yeah?”

“Why not show ourselves around the city while the elf is busy? See what it has to offer? Who knows when he'll be back and how long we'll be staying?”

It was tempting to roll back into the soft bedsheets and sleep longer. But that would only make it harder to wake later. And maybe a little sunlight and a breath of the outside would perk them up. So she agreed.

–

There was no point in trying to follow Kynril into the Thalmor headquarters, even for a look around. Neither of them wanted to be kept there for a day. As for the rest of Castle Dour, it was off limits to civilians, and even if Ren'dar wished to announce himself as Thalmor there was not much to see in a barracks or dungeon.

Instead, they toured the eastern part of the city.

“This is the Bard's College,” Ren'dar said, waving a hand at a large building to their left. “Where Nords come to study the history of Tamriel, so they can sing bawdy songs at inns and frustrate Thalmor justiciars all over Markarth.”

“Any chance Ogmund the Skald is from here?”

“Oh, yes. He would tell anyone who listened. Nords aren't exactly shy. You could get him to sing about Ysgramor and Talos, too. Ever heard Nine Maidens? It was once very popular in the Silver-Blood inn.”

“Now that you mention it, I did hear... someone having words with Jarl Igmund about him.”

“This one bets he tried to recruit you to snoop around and collect evidence.”

“Oh gods. That's what he wanted?”

“So he did? Ha! He must have liked you.”

They continued walking, and passed under an archway and into a courtyard and gardens. In seconds, Rachel realized that the looming walls and windows around them belonged to a single building, the biggest one she had ever seen above ground, definitely larger than Dragonsreach, perhaps rivaling Understone Keep in its size.

Ren'dar gestured at the high walls and towers. “The Blue Palace! So named for its roof.”

“What, really?”

“Let's go inside.”

“Wait, what?” Rachel jogged to catch up with him, and whispered, “Is that even allowed? I mean, after Ulfric....”

Ren'dar shrugged. “You would not know this after growing up in Markarth, but Nords like to keep their palaces, even their courts open to the public. A jarl is not a good jarl if you cannot approach them.”

They passed by a single door guard, who briefly turned his helmeted face toward them, then went back to watching the courtyard and the road.

“You see? Just like Jarl Balgruuf's palace.” Then he froze. “This one hopes that Jarl Balgruuf's palace does not have such a strange air.... Do you feel that?”

Ren'dar was right. Somewhere ahead, beyond the vestibule's seating and refreshments, there was an odd tangle of magicka. Cold and menacing, light and playful.

“Is this what a curse feels like?” Rachel whispered.

Ren'dar walked forward, furred head turning slowly from one side to the other.

She could have sworn there were stairs ahead, but they met solid brick. Ren'dar turned and cursed. The way back was another wall.

“This way, my dear Khajiit,” called a voice, somewhat high, in an Alinoran tone.

There was a door to their right, in the shape of an arch. Ren'dar sighed. “Either this is a very strong illusion, or we have become ensnared in a daedric trick. This one smells the sweet fumes of moon sugar on the air, but sees no lunar clergy and no moon sugar....”

“What do you think it is, then?”

“Sheggorath. Ren'dar does not know about you, but he does not wish to pass through that door.”

“Come, my kitten!” The second voice was rougher and carried an accent more suggestive of a Khajiit. “Do not be afraid. See what awaits!”

“Two Sheggoraths? He does not like what he hears.”

“Does it wish to return to Nirn or not?”

“Oh, so this _is_ a realm of Oblivion? Wonderful.”

“Ren'dar? I don't trust them,” Rachel said, turning to make sure the wall behind her was still wall and nothing was creeping up, “but I don't think they'll let us out if we just... stand here.”

The Khajiit shook his head and walked forward with careful steps, then reached forward with a clawed hand to open the door. It gave no resistance. It swung open to a brilliant light and warmth.

It was like approaching the heat of the forge, to step outside, and she had to look down, it was so bright. Her worn leather boots fell on neat, perfectly angled stone bricks, while some birds squeaked out shrill cries and a mercifully cool breeze wafted in, replaced again by stillness and heat. The sun was higher than she ever remembered.

But there was the fog, she noticed, when she finally looked up again. Thick and violet, swirling around more pale brick buildings and their high, arched roofs. A mist dulling an odd white in the distance that might have been sand, obscuring the seawater and the masts of ships.

The place was not empty of life. High Elves roamed the streets. Bosmer and Khajiit appeared in the crowd, and occasionally a human or Argonian walked by. They were not as numerous as the Altmer, but they were present. And they all passed them, not taking notice of the two in the doorway.

“This... cannot be Alinor!” Ren'dar breathed. “No, it would be Alinor as it was in the past. Before the Thalmor began to bar the isles off to all who were not Altmer.”

“But this can't be Alinor at all,” Rachel said, and it unnerved her that she had nearly forgotten, “because we're supposed to be in Solitude.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

On the other side of the street, Ren'dar – no, it couldn't have been him – tapped an Altmeri woman on the shoulder and motioned for her to bend down. The Altmer leaned, and was rewarded with a fluffy forehead against her own. The mer laughed and returned the gesture.

Rachel blushed as the other Khajiit turned, blue eyes glinting in the sun, and waved.

“Hello there, sweet little human! Care to join us?”

“I... I... um.” Rachel looked at Ren'dar for help.

“You're the voice we heard!” he called. “You and that elf!”

“It guessed right!” said the other Khajiit. “Come and talk to us! We mean you no harm.”

“I don't trust that,” Ren'dar said. Then he looked at Rachel and smiled. “And you! Becoming unclawed when a pretty woman looks at you! Save that for Nirn!”

“Right. Sorry....”

They wove their way through the crowds and across the street, where the couple waited for them. As soon as they had set foot on the grass, the two dropped their demeanor.

“Perhaps you can help us,” said the Khajiit, wringing her hands. “This is King's Haven. A lovely little port on Summerset. But as you can see, we are having a fog problem.” She waved a hand at the sea. “The cursed ship sails from here to the waters north. It does not make port. But when it comes, this fog rolls in, and with it, terrible things!”

“Ren'dar is experienced with terrible things,” he said. “If you can tell him more....”

Something large and brown fell from the sky and landed on the street with a wet thump. It was a sweet roll.

“He knew it,” Ren'dar sighed. “What has Sheggorath unleashed?”

“Ah, good question. For the true horrors that plague this island are not the Skooma Cat's style! Don't you agree, Est–” The woman looked around. “Dark moons! Not again.... I have to go find my wife. Please, defend King's Haven!”

And in an instant, she had faded into nothingness.

“Defend?” Rachel yelped. And suddenly the island wasn't so hot. In the new cold, she was grateful for her leather armor and.... “When did I get this?”

She reached up and felt a hard helmet covering her head. There was a small sword at her hip. She drew it; it was an iron leafblade. Not the robes she'd arrived in. Not the steel sword Ren'dar had bought for her in Whiterun.

A voice cut through the chilled air.

“Drop your weapon and surrender immediately, dog! No magic, either!”

Two tall Altmer approached, eyes hard and cold like brass, polished black and gold armor gleaming somehow in the dimming light.

“Are you... are you Thalmor?” Rachel asked, eying their weapons. They were glass. And they looked heavy and sharp. She could imagine what would become of her if that mace struck – too much blood, broken bones, death.... “Please, we're with the Domin–”

A heavy gloved hand knocked her to the road. She cried out and rubbed her cheek and nose.

“You know the law! Half-breeds and cats have no place on this sacred isle! Your execution will–”

The Thalmor guard was cut off, quite literally, by a quick sword thrust straight beneath the breastplate. And the horrible, wet sound of metal through flesh was followed by a puff of smoke. No blood, no body. The guard vanished. Ren'dar made short work of his fellow.

“This is not Summerset!” Ren'dar said, looking around. “There are no real elves to kill here. But your face.... It _is_ bruised....”

Rachel hauled herself back to her feet and retrieved her sword from where it had landed. She turned it over in her hand, then eyed the fake Thalmor enforcers in the distance. “I have to fight now, don't I? It's finally time, isn't it?”

“Yes. Act with caution, but do not fear the wrath of the Dominion here. You are not a clawless kitten. We will leave this realm of Oblivion together.”

They hurried through a rain of unnirnly water and sweets. There were only Altmer now. Or rather, only Altmer could walk about unmolested. The few Wood Elves who lingered cowered and fled. Ren'dar was the only Khajiit in sight, and she did not see anyone else.

And of the Altmer, a small number were Thalmor, who wanted her and Ren'dar dead. Sometimes she was hurt. There was always the moment of panic with the stinging, burning pain and the blood that flew. But then there was the memory that she was a mage. She was a mage, and she had her spells, and there was no better time to practice mage armor or healing. The relief of pain and the new energy in her limbs was reassuring.

The blade in her hand was light and quick, but her stomach threatened to turn every time she slashed at an attacker. It was a little easier when mer simply disappeared; she tried hard not to imagine if they were real. Bodies like in Markarth. Like....

Weylin fell into view with a soft thud, eyes and mouth still wide with horror, blood flowing freely from a great hole in his middle. Her scream attracted the attention of more Thalmor. Ren'dar dispatched them.

“Are we fighting Sheogorath or Vaermina?!” she cried as the body turned into a rainbow of frogs and scattered.

And somehow, Oblivion answered 'yes'.

The longer they fought, the farther they ran, the more the Altmeri Thalmor were replaced by dremora. Daedra, at least, she could bear fighting. But their battle-cries matched those of the fake Thalmor, and her fear for her own life was the same.

“Ren'dar, if this is Alinor, I don't think I want to do this anymore....”

He shook his head. “You would not be here without a master, and the streets are not so pretty with blood on them. But this... this is the attitude of the Thalmor, without their famous restraint.”

Her heart froze. “What of Kynril? Ondolemar?”

“Ondolemar is too kind to even think of bringing you here, and Kynril is softer than a newborn cub. Ah, wait.... Ren'dar hears something.”

Kynril's voice, desperate and pleading, carried across the air. They hurried after the sound. It led them to the docks, where a magnificent ship was anchored. But they did not need to board it to see the disturbance. Nor was it Kynril they had heard.

Another mer, with blond hair and skin a far lighter gold, knelt on the wet boards of the dock before a frightful figure. A woman, eeriely similar to the Altmer they'd seen after stepping into Oblivion, glared down at him.

“My sister.... My Kinlady! I beseech you, do not send us away....”

Rachel held back, almost certain she was intruding on something. Ren'dar watched with silence. And the Altmeri noblewoman did not seem to care that the scene had an audience. Rachel was not sure she even noticed them.

“So, this is what became of my brother. My noble brother, too good for Altmeri study and cerimoniarchy. Too important to fulfill his ancestral duties when the gates of Oblivion opened. Decided to come crawling back when it was clear, did you? I suppose you and your wench were gallivanting around Cyrodiil when the Crystal Tower fell?”

She pointed somewhere to the west, to mountains that loomed over the city and coasts.

“It was nothing like that! I spent every day fearing for our home. But I had no means to return, and–”

“Spare me your excuses. Your pathetic display and fragile loyalty make it clear that you have no place on the throne... or within a hundred leagues of it. You are banished from Luxurene and all its lands and waters.”

Rachel almost missed the soft hiss Ren'dar gave.

“Sister, please....” The mer's shaking voice was barely audible. “Have mercy. I gladly relinquish my birthright. I will not challenge you or your heirs. I ask only for your charity, for shelter... for myself and my wife....”

“Then seek it elsewhere. Begone. Or shall I inform the canonreeve that a vagrant and half-breed roam King's Haven?”

“I... but....” The kneeling mer hesitated, then scrambled to his feet. “I... hear and obey. Stars guide you, my Kinlady....”

He turned and walked away, head still bowed, a face too familiar still wet with tears. He did not see Rachel or Ren'dar.

A new figure in strange golden armor and a winged helmet stood in the Kinlady's place.

Ren'dar did not waste time. In seconds, his sword clashed against the blade of the gold-armored dremora. A brief struggle, and it was over. The golden saint fell dead and vanished like every other foe in the nightmare.

But even as the fog began to lift, Thalmor swarmed the docks. Too many of them. She considered her options: Fight? Surrender? Flee? She rushed past Ren'dar, up the gangplank of the great ship....

And she tripped over a rolled up rug.


	13. Respite

King's Haven was gone. They were in a storeroom, one of more familiar stonework, with crates and barrels and Nordic wooden furniture stacked up along the walls and on towering shelves. Rachel cast another healing spell for her sprained wrist. Ren'dar's hurt tail was more difficult, for his magicka was as a shield against her and she could barely image it.

But they were back in Nirn. Where, they were not sure. But they had their own clothes, and no weapons, and miraculously they had not destroyed anything or slain any mortals that they could see.

“Not bad, for your first true battle. You might make a fair battlemage if you continue your training,” Ren'dar mused.

“Thanks. But what in the name of Malacath's great ballsack was all of that?”

“Knowing the Skooma Cat? A twisted vision of something that drove someone to madness. Its consequences. Fears that came true. It was probably the worries of that Altmer lady. The one talking to the Khajiit who looked too much like me....”

They moved carefully through the storeroom in search of an exit. With a few turnarounds and some confusion, they found it. The court antechamber of the Blue Palace greeted them.

And so did two guards with red tabbards.

“Hold it right there, you two....”

Rachel looked at Ren'dar, who merely held his hands up in surrender. She glanced back at the blank steel faces of the guards, and wondered if she ought to do the same.

“That part of the building is off limits. How did you get in?”

“Sheogorath did it. We think,” Rachel said weakly.

The guard merely stood taller. Not exactly necessary, for a Nord. “Is that so?” came a mocking voice from beneath the helm. “Did Sheogorath unlock the door for you?”

“Yes? I mean, maybe? I don't know.”

“That's enough. You're both under arrest.”

“It is not like these dutiful guards are dremora,” Ren'dar said as he offered his hands, and Rachel knew immediately that he was trying to soothe any returning fears. “Or so Khajiit believes. The Jarl would only allow the best in court, yes?”

And so they were marched out of the Blue Palace, one guard leading them, another behind. Apparently the dungeons were not inside. And if they were near Castle Dour and the Thalmor headquarters, they had a long walk ahead of them.

Rachel nearly missed it, with her eyes low and head still flooded with thoughts about the daedric visions. But they had barely left the nobles' district when two sets of legs hurried by. She turned her head just in time to see it: Kynril walking down the street, bent slightly, his hand held by a human child. He returned the stare, wide-eyed, brows furrowed in confusion, but the guard shoved her along before she could get a word out.

At least Kynril knew where to look for them, she thought bitterly.

They had not gone twenty paces when he cried, “Halt!”

The guards ignored him, and Kynril caught up in a matter of seconds. He planted himself in front of them. “I said _halt_. What have these two done?”

Kynril drew himself up to full height. Which was somewhat taller than the armored Nords. Rachel stared, and wondered what on Nirn he planned to do in civilian clothes.

“Citizen, interfering with an arrest is a crime,” the guard warned. “Get out of the way.”

“'Justiciar'.”

Rachel couldn't see what he handed to the guard, but she guessed it was the same scroll he provided for the Thalmor. Whatever it was, the guards seemed to accept it as proof of his rank.

The first guard's voice was tinged with disgust. “They yours, then? You ought to know already, the laws of Skyrim apply to everyone, Nords and outsiders alike. You can have them back when they've paid for their crimes.”

“And what crimes have they committed?” Kynril asked, leaning to the side to frown at her and Ren'dar. She felt herself give an automatic, nervous smile. “I believe a mer of my station has a right to inquire....”

“Trespass. A breach of forbidden castle grounds.”

“Is that so...?”

“Not on purpose!” Rachel objected. “We can explain!”

“You can regale me later.” Kynril turned back to the guard. “What is their fee?”

“For both of them? Thirty septims.”

And there were no objections to that. The coin was counted out, Rachel and Ren'dar's bonds were undone, and they were left alone with Kynril while the guards made their way back to the palace.

“To think, we were almost in prisoner clothes,” Ren'dar muttered. “Again!”

“I'm sure that was just a misunderstanding,” Kynril said, raising his eyebrows, “but I do expect a full explanation later.”

“We're curious too. What did that child want with you...?”

“Blast it. You're right.”

He led them back up the road, to one of the smaller houses, then bade them to wait outside. Kynril knocked on the door, entered the house, and shut it behind him.

“Well, that _is_ interesting,” Ren'dar said. “A justiciar, letting a little girl drag him across the city?”

In a few minutes, Kynril emerged, head down, and let out a long sigh.

“So, what did the child want?” Ren'dar said. “And didn't you have important business in the city...?”

“Oh, business is done with _me_ now.” Kynril looked west, at the distant gates of Castle Dour. “We're leaving in a couple of days. There's just one thing I need to do. Come on.”

Kynril led them down the streets, glancing at each building as he walked. After a few minutes, he found what he was looking for – a graveyard, apparently. He skirted the edge of it and entered Solitude's hall of the dead.

They were stopped briefly by the hall's keeper, and when Kynril explained they were looking for someone named Roggvir, they were given directions to a coffin at the far end of the catacombs.

What the priest did not tell them, and perhaps did not know, was that there were angry, walking skeletons inside. The skeletons were armed, and they were not.

Kynril drew a deep breath.

“ _ **PRAAN!**_ ”

There was no blast of wind this time. Whatever the word meant, the unnatural glow in the skeletons' eyes dimmed, and they fell to pieces, clattering all over the dusty floor.

“The study of ancient Nordic religion and Dovahzul has its uses. I told them to rest,” Kynril explained, stepping over the bones.

“My lord, why are we down here?” Rachel asked. “Who is Roggvir?”

“Roggvir was a Nord who aided the escape of Ulfric Stormcloak after he murdered High King Torygg. He was executed only last month. But... he had a family. His sister has been grieving. And her daughter asked me to help her. So, here we are.”

“I don't get it.”

They turned down one of the halls that the priest had mentioned, and Kynril began to read the inscriptions outside of the coffins.

“Roggvir had something on his person when he died. It would... help his sister find comfort, to have that.”

“You're going to open the coffin of a month-long dead man to get something out of there?”

“Just like old times.”

“To be fair, Eltrys was not dead _that_ long,” Ren'dar pointed out. “Did Kynril at least spare you the sight?”

“A mer such as myself is more accustomed to seeing death,” Kynril said. And yet, his brow furrowed from revulsion. “I would not make a civilian look at a man's remains. Even though said remains were wrapped in linen.... Ah, found him.”

Kynril hoisted the stone lid of the coffin and slid it back. “Oh. Oh, thank goodness Nords don't leave everything _on_ the body, or this would be a little more unpleasant.”

He lifted something gingerly from the coffin, then shut it again. A dull amulet, perhaps copper or bronze, shaped something like an axe. Kynril pocketed the amulet, then noticed the look on her face.

“What?”

“You're just... going to return that to her?” Rachel asked in disbelief. “An Amulet of Talos?”

Kynril's face twisted as if he suddenly felt very ill. “What do you take me for, a dremora?”

“So... you're not going to turn her in?”

“I can show mercy to a grieving Nord.” He folded his arms. “She isn't our priority, and her family has already paid dearly for this man's treason. I can overlook petty heresy.”

“That's... good to hear. Thanks, Kyn.”

His face relaxed, looked sad even, and he said nothing. But before she could ask why, another question came to mind.

“Are you allowed to do this?”

“Technically, no,” Kynril said. “You will tell no one of this. Not even Ondolemar.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“You have our silence,” Ren'dar assured him. “If it helps, he has known Ondolemar for a very long time, and thinks he would approve of your judgment. But we will not tell him.”

Kynril ran a hand over his pocket again. Then he began to walk back. “So, what were you _doing_ in the Blue Palace?”

“Can we tell you later?” Rachel asked. “It was....”

“An ordeal,” Ren'dar finished. “And not a tale suitable for a crypt.”

–

Rachel waited until they returned to the inn, ordered a meal, and returned to their own room. Kynril chewed his roast venison carefully and swallowed.

“A pocket of Oblivion in a forbidden wing of the Blue Palace? I'd think investigating that would be more important than locking up two unfortunates who were trapped there. And you say this pocket looked like Alinor?”

“King's Haven.”

“Close enough. But why Oblivion would show you the nightmare of a mad mer is beyond me. And you said he was being banished?”

“I don't know,” Rachel said. “We thought maybe it was related to that mer we saw at the start of it. The one married to that Khajiit. But the Khajiit mentioned a ship?” She thought back. “And there was a ship at the end. Was that the same elf, banishing her brother?”

“No, no,” Ren'dar scratched behind his ear. “The one on the docks had a different face.”

“So you think an older mer had a nightmare about two noble siblings fighting? Well, that does have some merit,” he said, and took a long drink. “Family in-fighting isn't good for nobles. It has a tendency to weaken the entire house.”

And that reminded her of something the High Aldarch had mentioned.

“So... you... your father was a lord or something?”

Kynril flushed. “I might be _your_ lord, but I'm certainly not a lord. My father... departed for Aetherius when I was barely grown, and I've no birthright to claim. I wouldn't particularly care for it either.

“Speaking of feuding nobles,” he said quickly, “I can't warn you two enough that in a few days' time we'll be wandering into Stormcloak lands. We're going to try to board a merchant vessel bound east and ask if they'll let us disembark on the coast. From there, we'll find our next great Nordic barrow. Failing that, we'll just have to accept our loss of time and march back past Dragon Bridge and through the hold of Hjaalmarch.”

–

A cold rain blew in from the Sea of Ghosts. Fredas was slow, spent at the inn, reading borrowed books in candlelight, and sipping tea and spiced wine while the storm battered the roof and darkened the windows.

At one point, Kynril replaced the braid in his hair.

“This city reminds me of one of my first assignments,” he said. “After the war ended, after I completed my training, I was sent to Chorrol. A Cyrodilic city, between the Great Forest and the Colovian Highlands.”

“When was that?” Rachel asked.

“One Eighty-One, I believe....” He took a long sip of his tea. “It was a peaceful assignment, as far as they go. I patrolled the city and assisted with guard duties as requested, as justiciars are obligated to do. And of course, like other justiciars, I was responsible for monitoring the Chapel of Stendarr and Weynon Priory for Talos heresy.”

He rolled his eyes. “But, I swear, I spent half my time breaking up fights between the city's children. And eventually, almost all of them involved a particularly small and bothersome Nord child. I had to escort her home so often that I grew acquainted with her father, some sickly Imperial fellow. Not that the man ever completely trusted me, or that I blame him for that.

“Her family left the city around One Ninety-Two. So did plenty of other humans, as the years went on. And I remained in Chorrol until I was... transferred to Markarth.”

He leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. “Anyway. You saw what the barracks was like. I don't need to tell you how dull it would be to spend every waking minute of five years in there, with only rare trips out into the sunlight.”

Rachel chewed the corner of a slice of bread, and thought of the forge. “I still miss it sometimes. Sort of. Not the barracks. My apprenticeship.”

She caught Kynril staring at her.

“I don't wish to pry, but... what else did you do in Markarth?”

Rachel tried to remember. “I... well.... I had my apprenticeship for years. Since I was big enough to carry ore and lumber. I think I was ten. Lucky, too, because it wasn't long before... the... uh... big hairy problem started happening. But... before that, I was alone most of the time.”

Kynril's eyes widened. “Your parents...?”

“I really don't know,” she said, trying to dig into old memories. “I was alone. I think I slept in the warrens. Sometimes older Bretons gave me food.”

“Sometimes this one delivered the food,” Ren'dar said.

She blinked, and looked at him. He was sprawled out on the bed, staring at the candlelight flickering on the ceiling.

“What? Khajiit do not let kittens go hungry if we can help it.”

“That's really.... Wow. Thanks for that.”

“What about you, Ren'dar?” Kynril asked.

“You already know his story.” Ren'dar's scowl did not suit him. “He was in Markarth as long as Ondolemar. He spied on people and fed orphans, as all able Cats must. There is no more to tell.”

Rachel thought of the barracks again, and how in Sun's Height Ren'dar had tried to warn her that the Thalmor would take her away from her life. So she was relieved when Kynril did not press him further on his past.


	14. Snow and Steel

Luck was finally with them on Loredas.

They donned their armor, packed everything, and left Solitude as the sun rose. They found a small ship, Kyne's Wings, at the docks. And their captain accepted Kynril's proposition; receiving enough gold to take them to Dawnstar, but letting them off halfway there was a fair deal to him.

The mer looked at home on the ship. Excited, even. He walked about the deck with confidence. Ren'dar was not as thrilled, and Rachel was not sure how she stood the floor moving beneath her. But it took them exactly where they needed to go, or close to it, without the trouble of walking there.

The difficulties arose after disembarking somewhere on the coast, as night began to fall, and she and Ren'dar began to shiver in the cold. Even with extra furs, the chill crept in. A few times, Ren'dar called out for Kynril to slow down. Kynril, who moved over the rocks and snow and ice as if he did not feel the cold and it did not tear the wind from his chest.

Either he was determined, or there was something unnatural about Altmer, she decided. Maybe their magic kept them from freezing.

Tall waves of green and red light had appeared in the sky before they found what Kynril was seeking. Large, stone arches, barely illuminated by ancient braziers that were far off the ground. Over the braziers, statues of what might have once looked like eagles. They had only to climb a hill to reach the entrance.

Kynril pushed the door open, and the others stumbled in after him.

A glow and very welcome heat drew Rachel's attention to another brazier, one thankfully closer to the floor.

“It's... it's full of hot coals,” she said. “Do you think someone's already in here?”

Ren'dar shook the snow out of his scarf, while Rachel pulled her hands out of her gloves to warm them. Kynril slowly drew his sword and edged close to the mouth of a narrow hall.

“Another living person?” said the mer. “Perhaps. But you'd be surprised how many lights and fires you'll find where only the dead have been.”

“Maybe the draugr light them,” Ren'dar said.

“That's... actually quite possible, given the nature of them. Some of them might actually try to manage the temple, even in... in death....” Kynril covered a yawn. “Damn. It wasn't _this_ late when we got into the other barrows.”

Rachel yawned too, and Ren'dar soon followed.

“This one does not like the idea of sleeping here.”

But they quickly decided they did not have much choice. She was not entirely sure what Ren'dar and Kynril talked about as she tried to relax, tried not to think of undead waiting deeper in the tombs. She was not sure how she woke up feeling rested hours later.

–

Rachel also was not sure what she had expected out of a trip to a Nordic barrow.

It was dark, but they only needed a spell of light to illuminate the smooth worn walls and floors and their mismatched stonework, the iron gates and fixtures, the wooden walkways that looks ready to collapse.

It was full of draugr, but what alerted her to their presence was most often Ren'dar's bow. The Khajiit did not give them time to detect the intruders in their crypt. She would hear the whistle of an arrow and a hoarse gasp through a dry, withered throat before she actually saw the dead.

On occasion, they were spotted by some patrolling draugr, or startled by a coffin opening and undead stepping out to challenge them. But Kynril's new shield and the muscle behind it were more than enough to deflect old Nord steel. And old furs, cracking metal, and decayed flesh did not hold well against a new sword.

It might have been an entirely different place, if not for her light, for Ren'dar's keen eyes and precision, for the wall Kynril was between them and surprises. It was easy to see how the others had made it through Bleak Falls Barrow.

Still, she kept a spell of Oakflesh over her body, gripped the handle of her shield and sword, and reminded herself: she'd fought daedra and lived. Daedra. The wasted remains of Nords were nothing.

“Couldn't you just Shout them all to sleep?” Rachel eventually asked. “Like in Solitude?”

“That was an emergency,” Kynril said. “And Shouting takes a bit out of you.”

It was not long before they descended into a room with a wooden stairway covered by a solid iron grate. And after a few seconds, Kynril muttered something.

“Hawk... whale... something... snake.”

Rachel stared at him. The mer raised an armored hand to point out carvings close to the ceiling: the faces of old Men, holding depictions of animals in their open mouths.

“It's the sequence to some mechanism in here,” Kynril explained.

“What, really? It's that easy?”

“The hard part is locating the matching animals, their switches, and surviving any dead or traps waiting for us.”

“And you're used to fighting the dead. So it's just matching animals.”

“Well... yes.”

Their first true obstacle in the tombs came in the form of a locked gate, in a circular room with a number of coffins along the walls, and a large crystal just floating in the air over a pedestal. The coffins, unnervingly enough, did not open at their approach, or as they walked past, or even as they began to talk and search the room. After scouring the room for a lever, or a switch, or anything mundane that could possibly open their path, they looked back at the soul gem and the coffins.

Sure enough, the lurking draugr finally emerged when the soul gem was disrupted. And after all that suspense, they weren't much stronger than the other undead they'd already fought.

It was not the last room of its kind. In others they were made to pull a switch, moving large sections of wall, where draugr guarded more means to get through locked doors. The ruins had a pattern of stopping them at so many turns, forcing small battles before letting them proceed. And even Ren'dar could not predict where the _every_ draugr would creep out.

As they neared the end of a corridor, Kynril came to a sudden halt. Rachel immediately felt why. There was a lot of magicka ahead, and she could only describe it as menacing. Ren'dar's fur stood straight up.

“This isn't going to be an easy fight,” Kynril whispered.

“Ren'dar has his bow. We are fighting a powerful mage, yes? Let him distract....”

“I'd rather you didn't try that.”

“Well, what is your plan?”

“I... don't have one.”

They both looked at Rachel.

“I don't have a plan either,” she hissed.

“Your ideas are as good as any,” Ren'dar said. “Just be ready to shield and ward yourself, but try not to get the dragon priest's attention.”

“Okay, I was already going to do that.”

“Then you had a plan, and it was a good one, just not one for taking the enemy down.”

Kynril tapped the floor with the heel of his boot. Then stretched his arms. “We could always just rush it.”

“That is going to get someone hurt,” Ren'dar sighed. “But unless I can sneak up on him, I don't see another way. We will have to be direct.”

Kynril approached the double doors, but they swung open on their own. Ahead, there was a familiar clatter of stone, one that was certainly yet another lid falling off another coffin. A ghostly figure, thin, masked, wearing tattered robes and armor, rose from its resting place in the center of the room ahead.

Ren'dar slipped in. Kynril walked in next, shield and sword ready, with Rachel behind him.

Maybe she could cover Kynril with Oakflesh again, she thought. That would help.

But before she could prepare, an arrow struck the dragon priest where its neck would have been. It turned, raised a staff in Ren'dar's direction. Kynril charged.

The dragon priest's attention turned to him and a fireball burst from the end of the staff. Rachel cast a ward in front of Kynril and herself as quickly as she could; the fireball exploded against it, harmless.

The ghost did not seem to care, and readied another spell as it advanced. And somehow it spoke, in a sharp rasp that echoed through the chambers.

“Qiilaan sosaal, tahrodiis fahliil zaam!”

Kynril flinched and tightened the grip on his sword. Another arrow flew, and Kynril threw himself back into the fight. This time, he caught the staff on his shield, and stabbed.

Another blast. Kynril flew back and hit a wall with a painful metallic scrape. He staggered, picked himself up, glowing in the soft light of his own restoration magic. But he froze as the dragon priest aimed another spell.

Rachel did not remember preparing to cast. A bolt of lightning jumped from her hands to their enemy, caught it by surprise. It was just enough for Kynril to move again, to drive his sword deep underneath robes.

The dragon priest writhed and fell to the floor, its remains nothing more than hot ash, robes, staff, and mask.

Ren'dar stepped out of his hiding place. Kynril prodded the ashes with his sword. A trickle of blood ran from a cut on his cheek.

“Kyn? Did anything else get hurt?”

Kynril's eyes widened. “Yes, but I've already healed most of it. I'm fine.” He stooped to pick up the mask. “And now to deal with you.”

Rachel stared at the mask, steel and creepy in the mer's hands. “What now? Do we just stuff a dead Nord's burial mask in our things and leave?”

Kynril picked a clean space on the floor, sat, and opened his bag. But instead of placing the mask in it, he drew out a wooden tube and opened it. A number of scrolls were inside. He picked one, then returned the rest to his bag.

He opened the scroll on the floor. Whatever it said, Rachel couldn't read it. But he pulled the gauntlet off his right hand, wiped the blood off his face, and to her confusion smeared it on the inside of the mask. The steel erupted with heat and white light. And as the light faded, there was no sign that it had even been bloodied.

“And now for the hard part,” Kynril sighed, laying the mask on the scroll. He placed his hands on either side, shut his eyes in concentration. The mask and scroll blinked out of sight, and Rachel could not help but continue to stare at where it had been.

“That's one mask,” said the mer. “One mask consecrated with the blood of a dragon, now in the High Aldarch's possession.”

That was... an awfully daedric solution, she thought. Dozens of rumors and warnings from other Bretons, from traveling Vigilants of Stendarr, from Ghorza came to mind. “Blood? You have to _bleed_ on these things?”

“To consecrate them, yes,” Kynril repeated.

He healed the cut on his face and began to search for the exit. Then he stopped, staring at something across the great chamber. For a few seconds, she hoped that he would agree with her the it was weird for the High Aldarch to ask for his blood of all things. But instead, his entire face lit up and he jogged over to something just out of her sight.

“Hey! Look at this! Another preserved wall!”

Rachel exchanged looks with Ren'dar, who shrugged and followed him.

–

The day was bright and cloudless as they marched eastward, toward Dawnstar. In spite of the snow that hampered them, and the cold sea breeze, the weather was fine. It seemed that the gods had decided to give them a day of peace.

That was before the snow began to rise and swirl around them, and they heard the telltale rush of wind on dragon wings.

Ren'dar's bow was out, Kynril drew his sword, and they squinted through the whirling snow, trying to see _where_ the dragon was. Rachel caught a glimpse of its shadow.

“There! It's over there!”

Before the others could look, the dragon had passed over their heads with a roar, and the worst cold that she had ever felt seized her and burned through her body.

She was on the ground. On the ground, hot, and scared but _enraged_. She moved her arms, trying to pick herself up, and saw oversized limbs, a tail, and white and gray fur.

Ren'dar stood guard over her. Kynril? Kynril wasn't in sight.

She growled and got to her feet, where she could see better.

A white dragon had landed on the ground, its wing frayed and and bleeding over the snow. Kynril stood only feet away, repelling it with sword and shield.

The dragon opened its great mouth, then did what seemed impossible with its giant throat. It spoke.

“ _ **HI KREN VIINGI!”**_

Kynril's shield met the dragon's snout. It recoiled and shrieked.

“ _ **NIVAHRIIN OD FAHLIIL!”**_

The dragon lashed out with its tail, and she charged.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw Kynril roll and scramble to his feet. And her teeth cut into the dragon's soft nose.

The thing reared and screamed again, and she dug her claws in under the scales and held on. But the dragon managed to dislodge her. She toppled over its neck and landed hard in the snow.

Rachel could barely see or hear what happened in the chaos, but the dragon struggled and collapsed. She crawled away as the beast's corpse began to burn. The skies cleared.

Kynril and Ren'dar ran to her, safe, unharmed save for some bruises....

And suddenly she was small again.

Kynril stared, and ignored the dragon's soul as it cloaked him, engulfing him with radiance.

“Well. Look who's dressed this time! It's you!”

Rachel looked at her own body. Everything had returned to normal. Limbs were the right size and she felt her face; muzzle had returned to a normal mouth and nose. And somehow, this time, her transformation hadn't destroyed her armor and clothing.

But... there was the exhaustion. It was only with a lot of encouragement and some food that she was able to stay awake while they found shelter.

–

Empty dragon graves made an excellent place to camp. The hole they found was somewhat sheltered from the wind, which enabled them to light a fire and not freeze too much during the night. Nestled deep in their bed rolls, with the fire and their furs, they managed to sleep comfortably and wake up ready for another day's march.

And so, the next night, they stepped into the seaside city of Dawnstar.

Rachel had imagined stepping into Stormcloak lands would be different, that there would be blue tabards and Windhelm banners and bear furs and axes all over the place. But the town, all wood and blanketed with late Hearthfire snow, looked as though it had never seen battle.

And then she remembered that the jarl had happily joined Ulfric's side. No need to keep the city under control when its jarl followed by his own will.

They found the inn, ordered dinner and a room, and finally got out of their armor and into normal clothes. And though the comfort of the room was welcome, it was worse than being in Whiterun. With more Nords and possibly Stormcloaks lurking around them, Rachel did not dare ask questions about the war, the Thalmor, or anything elven.

“What happened with that dragon?” Rachel asked the others.

Kynril said nothing, but Ren'dar looked up from counting his arrows. “Ah. Yes.... You were... asleep.”

“I know that, but how did you two ground that thing? And how did neither of you... get hurt when it _breathed_ on us?”

“It landed several times,” Kynril shrugged. “We had more than enough time to damage its wings, stop it from taking off again. As for.... No, I don't know why only you were badly hurt by the frost.”

“Khajiit is... lucky,” Ren'dar explained. “Magic does not affect him very much. It never has. And it seems a dragon's breath is just that. Magic.”

Rachel looked back at Kynril, who said, “No. I'm not an Atronach.”

“The maybe it was your armor,” Rachel said. “Could it be warded against ice?”

“I... I really don't know.” The mer stood, took one of their hats, and pulled it low over his ears. “I need some air. I'll be back later.”

Rachel watched him leave, and flinched as the door shut a little harder than necessary.

“It's all right,” Ren'dar sighed. “The elf acts this way when he's scared of something.”

“What does he have to be scared of?” Rachel asked bitterly. “Besides the barrows and dragons, I mean.”

“This one has a few guesses. But it would not do to speculate while he is away. It is also very... elfy stuff that would take far too much time to explain.”

She sank lower in her chair, tapped the side of the table with her fingernail, and hoped Kynril would not be gone long. But he was still out when she gave up and crawled into bed.


	15. The Silver Hand

For the second time in two months, she was shaken awake by furry hands.

“What on....”

“You must wake!”

Rachel rolled over and sat up. Ren'dar was fully dressed already, in furs even, and his tail was swishing back and forth. He passed her mail and robes to her without another word.

Kynril was not there. Not wanting to ask, or to hear what had happened, she dressed and ate her share of breakfast as quickly as she could while Ren'dar sat, checked the condition of his bow, and tapped his foot loudly on the dusty wood floor.

“The elf has gone missing again,” Ren'dar said. “The innkeeper says he never came back. He is not in jail, or the rest of the town. And the guards would not talk to Ren'dar. Not willingly. Now he hears from the Baandari that bandits attacked in the night, carried someone off!”

Rachel nearly dropped her waterskin. “What? Bandits? … Why? Why would they–”

“He does not know, but the victim fits his description.”

“Which way did they go?”

“South. They could have run many places, but this one has... had more words with the guard, and he has an idea where the elf might be.”

They set off quickly from the inn, wrapped in furs against the pre-dawn cold, the burden of Kynril's things split between them. A Pale guard stepped out of their way; a glance at his unmasked face showed four long, red streaks across a cheek.

The Khajiit stopped her, pointed out several boot prints in the snow, leading away from the Dawnstar.

“These do not belong to commoners or the guards,” he said.

“How did he get kidnapped?” Rachel huffed as they followed the trail.

“He is young, he was already frightened last night, he was unarmed, and his magic is pitiful for a mer.”

The tracks became more scattered, and another set of feet joined them. Then there was a Kynril-sized impression in the shallow snow, and a bit of blood that Ren'dar determined was fairly recent, but spilled no less than a few hours ago. The tracks went on, off the road, beyond the trees and hills.

Their march continued, long and quiet under the cold sun. The more they walked, the more Ren'dar struggled, the more panic grew and she shoved it down again. The winds picked up as the hours wore on, blowing snow and covering what little there was to follow, and there were several places where the trail was disturbed by the paths of other people or animals. The snow was patchy, melted, nonexistent in places, leaving Ren'dar to guess or try to glean something from mud or soft ground.

And then there were giants. Ren'dar was not eager to be seen by one, and considering what they had seen a giant and their mammoth friends do to a dragon only weeks ago, his caution did not need explanation.

But it was hellish, to crouch and sneak and wait while somewhere Kynril was alone with bandits.

“Go! Kill 'em!”

Rachel nearly jumped, and Ren'dar turned to look around. But whoever was attacking, it was the latest giant they'd come across that cried out and began to fight back.

She chanced a peek out from their hiding place and saw, several yards away, a familiar human, tall, bulky, and heavily armored, two hands clutching a steel sword longer than his own body, clashing with the giant while two smaller figures went for the back and legs.

The giant fell, and the Companions cheered.

Rachel stepped out of their hiding spot before Ren'dar could say anything. “Hey, Farkas! That you?!”

The Nord turned. “Hey! It's the mage pup!”

Why did he have to call her _that_?

Farkas said something to his companions, then crossed the dirt and snow. “Didn't think I'd see either of you this far north of Whiterun. What are you doing out here?”

“What are _you_ doing out here?”

“Didn't I tell you? The Companions go everywhere and fix problems for Skyrim. And that giant was causing a lot of problems for people on the roads.”

“Well, that's great, since we're travelers....”

Farkas squinted, looked around. “Where's that elf friend of yours?”

Rachel looked at Ren'dar, wondering how to explain. But Ren'dar shrugged. “Kidnapped by bandits. We're trying to find them.”

Farkas snarled. He turned back to the others, who – Rachel bit her lip – had managed to cleave the head off the dead giant's shoulders. “You two get back to Dawnstar, then wait for me. I'll be back when I'm back.”

The others obeyed without a word. Soon their backs were small against the snow and dirt.

“Khajiit is grateful, but he does not ask for your assistance.”

“Yeah? Well you need it more than you know.”

Rachel took as step back as Ren'dar's nose, or what was visible over his scarf, wrinkled and his pupils narrowed.

“If there is something it knows, it should speak.”

Farkas started to walk south. Ren'dar followed, his tail bristling. Rachel walked close to him.

“All right,” Farkas said. “First of all, I know your little Breton friend here is a werewolf. A young, scared, undisciplined little werewolf.”

“I.... What?” Rachel gaped at him, and nearly lost her footing. “Dibella's tits, how did you know that? Are you one too?”

“Second, you got more to worry about than puny bandits up here,” Farkas continued. “This is Silver Hand grounds. They hunt werewolves and do awful stuff to any they can catch alive. I figured you might wanna know that.”

She felt woozy, and struggled to hang onto Ren'dar's voice as they marched.

“So, this Silver Hand,” Ren'dar said. “Is Khajiit right in guessing that you think they took our elf?”

“More than likely. The Silver Hand tries to track any known werewolves. Bandits tend to leave corpses or kidnap people for ransom. And you, none of you are probably known around these parts. So unless your bandits just happened to hate elves but love kidnapping them, I'm guessing the Silver Hand got him.”

“But why? Kyn's– He's not a werewolf.”

“That's the thing,” Farkas sighed. “They track _known_ werewolves. It sounds to me like you got spotted turning once, and some dumbass in their ranks decided the elf was the beast. Well? You ever get seen?”

Of course she had been seen. In Markarth. By, out of all people....

“Three mercenaries,” Rachel said. “Working for someone powerful. And... he was the only other person there when I... oh no.”

“Yep, that sounds pretty typical.”

“Well? Where can we find them?”

“Yes, we hope you know how to track this Silver Hand,” Ren'dar said.

Farkas halted and turned to them. “I think I can pinpoint your elf. But it's gonna seem a bit weird.”

“I've seen a lot of things in the last couple of months,” Rachel told him, and glanced at Ren'dar. “And I think my friend here has seen weirder. It won't be too weird.”

“All right. I'm gonna need something the elf wore. The sweatier, the better.”

–

With the help of Kynril's underpants, they came to an old Nordic fortress in a mountain pass. Fort Dunstad, Farkas called it.

“So his suspicions were true. And... yes. They're carrying silver swords.” Ren'dar's ears flicked, he ducked a little lower under the snowberry bushes.

“Silver... swords?” Rachel felt colder, if possible. Her mind flew back to Solitude's pocket of Oblivion, skin itching and stinging as she remembered the pain from the dremora weapons, and the burning of an otherwise safe silver dish.... “Why? _Why_?”

Farkas fidgeted next to her, adjusted his weight against the massive pine he hid behind. “Shouldn't that be obvious?”

“Yeah, but that's just... too much. What are the Silver Hand even doing here? I thought the Stormcloaks would be at a big fort like this,” Rachel whispered, while Ren'dar watched figures move around in the darkness. “You don't think the Silver Hand took them out, do you?”

“Not likely,” Ren'dar said. “That would just provoke Ulfric, bring his fist down hard on them. This one suspects they took the fort when the Stormcloaks left.”

“Why would they just leave?”

“Low numbers? Perhaps it wasn't worth holding? War is always changing, you know. And the Stormcloaks only have so many in their number.”

“How long are we gonna spend crouching in the shadows?” Farkas whispered.

“Not much longer.” Ren'dar pulled an arrow from his quiver. “Tell me, werewolf. Do the Silver Hand keep their prisoners in the dungeons like normal jailers, or...?”

“Yeah. That's usually where we find them. You want to bust in there first? Because I don't think your buddy will be in any shape to fight his way out.”

“Making sure the elf is alive is our top priority. Khajiit thinks you are more than a match for every Silver Hand in this fort.”

“So you're just gonna leave all the hard work to me?”

Ren'dar snorted. “Of course not. But wouldn't you like that?”

He let an arrow fly, and Rachel winced as a dark shape fell from the ramparts to the hard ground. Ren'dar pulled another arrow out. Whoever ran to look at the corpse joined them.

“We go,” Ren'dar muttered. “Now.”

And Farkas, sword in hands, took this as his signal to burst out of hiding and charge straight down the road into battle.

For all Farkas knew about the Silver Hand, it seemed odd that they did not expect to face _him_. None of those who hurried to the yard were ready for a hulking Nord, one covered in thick steel and fur, swinging a giant blade that broke armor and cleaved furs and flesh.

She was glad it wasn't very bright out, on that night. But there was plenty of light to see bodies cut down, living people and not just undead or dragons. With plenty of blood to spill. Too much blood....

Ren'dar fired an arrow past her shoulder, and she heard a scream somewhere above. Before anything could go wrong, she cast the strongest Oakflesh she could manage and prepared to shock anyone else who might have caught her off guard.

The fort covered more ground than she had imagined, and it had to have room for plenty of men inside, but the ranks of the Silver Hand? They were either thin to begin with or mostly asleep. If the Stormcloaks had ever held the fort, the Silver Hand must have been lucky to find it empty.

Something caught her ear – a panicked outburst! Rachel slowed down. Ren'dar had disarmed another Khajiit, and held him around the throat.

“Run, then! And don't show yourself here again!”

Ren'dar released him. The other Khajiit fled, sprinting as though Hircine himself had given chase.

“What are you doing?” Farkas roared. “Letting him get away like that!”

“He told me what I wanted, he can keep his life.” Ren'dar tested the weight of the silver sword, then shook his head and tossed it aside, into the mud and snow. “They're holding him in that tower, and there are two ways in. We get up the walls and do some more climbing until we find a trap door. Or, we go through that door and run until we find stairs. This one thinks the door is safer.”

“I get it,” Rachel said, frowning at the tower. “Safer to walk in, right? If we used a ladder it would be harder for us to fight anyone waiting.”

“I'll make an assassin out of you yet. Now put your mage armor back on. We don't know what's going to be behind the door.”

–

Ren'dar held out a hand to stop her as they approached the top of the stairs. Then he pressed a finger to his lips, and silently nocked an arrow.

Rachel heard Kynril's voice. It was hoarse, pained. She clutched the handle of her shield, resisted the urge to look into the room, while Ren'dar waited.

“Look, Master... Skinner, was it?” For one in danger, for all the pain in his voice, Kynril's tone was rather casual. Not at all the pleading she'd heard in front of other Thalmor. “This has all been a terrible misunderstanding.”

“There's no misunderstanding. You're too dangerous to live.”

“I know you must think you've caught a feral beast. But I assure you, I have everything under control.... Let me go, and I promise you, there will be no bloodshed on my account.”

Ren'dar's ears quivered. Yes, that was a pretty bold statement from a prisoner....

“That a threat, elf?”

“No, it's a promise. I can guarantee that I will not transform in a great hairy beast and start eating everyone I see.”

A double-meaning, then.

There were footsteps. And Ren'dar released the arrow. The noise was not completely unlike what she had heard in Markarth. The man, the Skinner, fell into horrible rasping.

“Be a dear and get the Skinner out of here?” Ren'dar smiled at Farkas.

But the Nord had already entered the room. Rachel shut her eyes as he emerged, and did not open them again until Farkas had definitely passed, dragging the dying body of the Skinner behind him.

Kynril was on his back on a wooden table, bound to the legs by his ankles and wrists. The mer looked pale and bruised and there was a barely-healed gash on his arm.

“Oh gods,” Kynril laid his head back on the table. “This is... this is all my fault. I never should have.... I....”

Ren'dar shook his head and began working on the knots. “What kind of place is Dawnstar, that a mer cannot take a stroll at night and the guards do nothing when bandits attack him! You should not be apologizing.”

Kynril's lips trembled, and Rachel diverted her attention to his wound. Why hadn't he healed himself?

“I'm going to see if I can fix your arm, my lord. It's okay, I've... uh... I've healed things before.” She looked at his arm again. “On second thought, maybe we should get some hot water on that first....”

Ren'dar finished untying him, but he did not move. “Come on, sleepy kitten.... There are beds downstairs, and nobody else is using them now.”

Kynril struggled to lift himself.

“We need to move him, carefully,” Ren'dar frowned. “How much can you lift?”

Rachel shrugged, and carefully slid her arms under Kynril's shoulders. For his height, and his muscle, he was surprisingly light without any of his armor.

“Maybe all of him,” she said, “but I really don't know I should.”

“This isn't necessary. I can....” Kynril trailed off. “Oh, to Oblivion with it. Thank you.”

–

Together, Rachel and Ren'dar managed to get him into one of many old beds in a side room. The Khajiit found strong drink and cleaned Kynril's arm while he took deep breaths and clenched his other hand.

“All right,” Rachel cracked her knuckles. “Let's see if I can feel your magicka.”

“I... You....” Kynril sputtered. “ _What?_ ”

She gathered her own magicka, and tried to think about _anything_ but calling daedra or lightning while she examined the wound. Just like healing her own wounds in Solitude, she reminded herself, only for someone else. Same as healing Ren'dar. She gently laid her hands on his arm.

Something was there. It was strong, but hesitant as she reached for it. Warm, a bit like the sun. If the sun could be warm through thick clouds.

It wasn't the worst injury she'd seen, she thought, as she tentatively willed his body to begin mending itself. Flesh began to close, some color returned to the mer's face. He became very interested in the worn edge of the bedsheet while his arm finished healing.

Kynril suddenly rolled onto his side. “Let me rest. You've done an excellent job, but you both must be exhausted now.”

The wound was gone, but she was sure she had done something horribly wrong, or at the very least horribly embarrassing. Thankfully, Farkas picked that moment to return. But rather than stepping inside, he leaned in the doorway, as if he had no wish to stay any longer than necessary.

“There's no more Silver Hand left in this old place, I can pretty much guarantee you that,” he said. “Oh, and I see your friend held on all right.”

Rachel remembered something. “So... uh... you need your fee I guess?”

The Nord grimaced. “Nah. No fee. This time. Figured I owe the poor bastard after running you both from Jorrvaskr. I still don't know what came over me....”

Kynril paled again. “Say no more. I thank you for your... assistance, friend. We shall not forget it.”

Farkas shook his head, then met Rachel's eyes. “I'm going back to Dawnstar. Be careful out here, pup.”


	16. Blood and Silver

They salvaged what they could from the fortress. The Silver Hand had gold and plenty of food, bandages, medicines, and a number of odd animal parts that Ren'dar was sure would come in handy later if he got a hold on the right tools.

But they did not leave until they were sure Kynril was well again. He spent most of his time pacing the room and testing the strength of his body. When they retrieved his shirt, he washed the blood out of the sleeve, but chose to continue wearing his robe instead.

Ren'dar returned to the sleeping quarters one hour, looking grim and bearing a journal.

“Ysgramor's dog was right,” he said. “The Silver Hand knew about us!”

He passed the journal to Kynril. Rachel leaned in closer to read it.

_Breton woman traveling with Altmer man – dangerous werewolf. Last seen fleeing Markarth in company of cat man. High priority. Informant offered 200 ingots silver, to be collected from Thongvor Silver-Blood at Markarth treasury._

Kynril gritted his teeth. “Thongvor.... That thrice-damned spawn of a....”

He turned the pages of the journal, while Rachel edged closer to him.

“He hired werewolf hunters? After... after Markarth?”

“I hope Ondolemar _tortures_ him.”

“Farkas was more right than he knew, though,” Rachel said. “Something went wrong when they were hiring them. That note. It's badly written. It could easily mark you instead....”

“Thank the stars for small miracles,” Kynril sighed. “Oh gods. There are more targets in here. Someone named Skjor, already 'eliminated'. Other human victims, most of them dead too. Some Bosmer and... hm... I think that's an Akaviri name.... Wait, what is....”

And then he began laughing.

“Oh, gods. Inquisitor Ancano is in here! Who reported _him_?”

“What? Ancano?”

“Some smug robe fresh from Alinor, from what I understand. Gods, what is he doing in.... Ah, never mind that. We're keeping this thing as evidence.”

“Wait, that'll just... expose a bunch of other werewolves!”

“Ondolemar didn't slay _you_ , did he? Besides, it's best if this list of werewolves doesn't fall back into Silver Hand... well... hands.”

“Yeah. And what are we going to do now?” Rachel asked. “There are probably more Silver Hands out there, and Thongvor....”

“I hate to say this, but I don't think there's anything we can do about them,” Kynril said. “I don't know how to contact Ondolemar out here. All we can do is... keep going and remember this danger exists now. Thongvor's days are numbered, if it is any comfort.”

Rachel sat on one of the beds, and avoided the others' eyes.

“So, that's it then. We're being hunted because of me.”

“No,” said Kynril. “We are being hunted because Thongvor Silver-Blood is a reprehensible, cowardly excuse for a Nord with far too much power in his hands, and because those mercenaries did not value the lives you let them keep.”

“What matters is that we know now,” Ren'dar said. “In a way, it is almost fortunate that this happened. Only because it did not come to a tragic end, of course.”

“No, it shouldn't have happened at all. My capture endangered both of you. We could have all been killed.”

Ren'dar smiled at Kynril. “What did you tell the Breton, moments ago?”

“In... any case, I shall exercise more caution next time I need air.” Kynril sank onto the bed opposite Rachel's. “I owe you both an explanation for what happened. But I hope that you can forgive my silence. Just know that it won't happen again.”

–

Kynril's orders from the High Aldarch took them further south. A second mask awaited them at the top of a mountain, near the borders of the Pale, Eastmarch, and Whiterun. And while the Dragon Priest's magic was formidable, the spirit fell to sword and arrows just as the first one did.

Finding a way south down the mountain proved to be more of a challenge. But in the end, it was possible as well. It was just a matter of finding the easiest slope down, navigating steep rocks in a way that did not involve falling hundreds of feet at one time, and, at one terrible moment, getting past an old Nordic fortress that had been decorated with what looked like werewolf heads on pikes. There, they waited for Ren'dar to scout ahead it and see if it was safe before they moved on. He found only long-dead Silver Hand bodies, and did not think it was worth looking inside to check for an ambush.

By that point, they'd returned to green grass and tall pines. And soon they reached new landscape: a low, misty basin of brown, yellow, and pale green, where the grass was shorter and sparse, and the trees were thin.

“That is Eastmarch,” Kynril said. “And somewhere beyond, the Velothi Mountains.... Of course, we're not going to Morrowind. It's an ash-covered wasteland now anyway. No.... We get to stay on the barbarian hell side of the mountains.”

Windhelm was said to be an ancient city of sea and snow. Windhelm must have been much farther north, away from the blessedly warm ground and the springs. Relatively warm. There was still the chill that blew in front the northern seas.

Still, the cold was bearable, hardly a thing compared to what they'd just left. Compared to the sharp scent on the air. A scent Ren'dar colorfully described as 'the asses of a thousand unwashed Nords'.

“How in all hells can it smell this foul here?” Kynril complained after an hour of following the road south. “Don't answer that. I know how.”

“Tell us?” Rachel asked.

“Obviously Ulfric Stormcloak's ego is leaking out of Windhelm and has become a plague upon this land.”

Ren'dar snorted behind them.

“The ground is more likely the answer,” Kynril eventually said. “See the steam in those springs over there?”

Rachel looked to her left. Eastmarch _was_ fairly hazy, but whether that had to do with the weather or the ground was beyond her.

“It's warmer here,” he explained. “It reminds me of Dwemer architecture. So many of their ruins still draw power from deep in the ground. It keeps places like Understone Keep a little warmer in the winter, and makes ancient Dwemer technology work. But... the bowels of Nirn also contain foul smells, like this one, which were a nuisance or a danger to the Dwemer as they built.”

“So the same power the Dwemer used is here?” Rachel asked.

“It's everywhere, if the extent of their work across Tamriel means anything. But it's closer to the surface here, or so I suspect. I wouldn't be surprised if under–”

He was cut off by something striking the dirt at his feet.

“What? Oh gods,” Kynril's voice rose. “Shield yourself!”

Rachel did not hesitate to cast the best Oakflesh she could as Kynril drew his sword. In that instant, she felt a strange grip of magic, followed quickly by the pull of the ground. She collapsed face-down on the path.

“What?” Kynril yelped. “Are you hurt?”

“I... I can't move!”

There was a yell somewhere off the road, and the sound of running. Above, Rachel heard the ring of steel meeting steel, and managed to raise her head a little.

Their attacker was much smaller than Kynril. A Bosmer, she noted. She seemed to meet Kynril in strength. But what unnerved Rachel was the sight of her holding nothing but a shortsword in her right hand, with the fingers on her left flexed like claws.

And she was more than a match in speed, she realized, while it was all Kynril could do to guard himself.

Ren'dar hissed softly behind her, and she heard the string of his bow, before a frigid wind swept over them. Rachel managed to wrench herself free of the magicka restraining her, and got to her feet in time to see a red-robed, white-furred Khajiit advance on him, holding threatening magic in each hand.

He would be fine. Of course he would. He knew how to fight mages and magic didn't hurt him. But to not act....

She glanced around in case there were more waiting to leap out of the basin scrub, then renewed her armor and tried to cast around Kynril as well. The spell took, and the Bosmer noticed, but could not break away from Kynril. The Khajiit, however, glanced over her shoulder, raised a hand–

Rachel cast a ward, but before the Khajiit could use another spell, Ren'dar tackled her to the ground. She backed away as a storm of fists, boots, and claws erupted.

She turned back to Kynril and the Bosmer, and felt helpless. There were no other attackers, it seemed.

No, no of course she wasn't helpless.

She could draw her sword and run in there, she thought with shaking hands. But no. No, the Bosmer was too fast, too skilled. And she wasn't a dremora, or even a fake dremora, or whatever they'd faced in Oblivion. It would be like what Ren'dar had to do in Fort Dunstad. And Ren'dar was fighting someone else. She would just get in the way, die in seconds....

The familiar well of fear and power began to overflow again. Rachel welcomed it, hoped the enemy didn't noticed as her body lengthened, sprouted thick fur, face grew long and teeth turned to fangs.

She gave the greatest roar she could and watched, hopeful, as the Bosmer was distracted from her assault.

But something pierced her hide. She snarled, fell again, and shrank. The pain worsened, with the horrible sensation of something being _torn_ back out of her leg. She yelled, pressed her hands over her robes and mail, felt warm blood flow beneath. Fire. Her leg could only be on fire. Through the pain, she managed to hear Kynril shout.

“Enough of this! _ **FUS!”**_

Behind Rachel, the Khajiiti mage hissed and cried, “Retreat!”

She opened her eyes. Through the blur of sweat and tears, she saw the Bosmer, who'd gone flying back, push herself to her feet and run for the treeline. Kynril started to give chase, and Ren'dar barked, “It's over. Let them go!”

“You... you don't give the orders,” the mer said harshly, and sheathed his sword.

But Ren'dar crouched next to Rachel, picked up a bloodied arrow. A bit of silver glinted beneath the red. Kynril hurried over and knelt by to them.

“How on earth did that get through the mail?” he groaned. “Ren'dar, stand guard.”

Rachel closed her eyes as magicka poured from his hands, to her thigh. The pain ebbed as she felt the wound close itself. Slowly, calmer thoughts returned. Oh, yes. She could have done that herself.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” Kynril asked.

Rachel wiped her eyes. “Go ahead.”

Frowning, Kynril pulled up her robes and inspected the elven mail beneath.

“There's no damage at all,” he said. “But you were struck as a beast.... I suppose that didn't help. Can I check your leg?”

“Sure.”

She waited while he looked beneath the mail and trousers.

“It looks like the damage is undone. Does this hurt?”

He prodded where the arrow had pierced her. It was a bit sore. Which, according to him, was perfectly normal and not serious.

But when she tried to stand, pain shot through her entire leg, from hip to toes. Ren'dar and Kynril saved her from hitting the ground again.

“It might have been the silver,” Ren'dar said. “It will wear off soon, yes?”

–

The pain did not end. Her leg ached when she placed any weight on it, and felt backwards somehow as she tried to balance. Kynril and Ren'dar both inspected the site of the injury again, but could find nothing wrong.

And so they took it in turns to let her lean against them as they traveled south, until a sign pointed them to the village of Darkwater Crossing. Night had fallen; they followed the lantern and torch lights into town.

Darkwater Crossing had no inn to house them, no bed to spare, and supposedly had no space under its many safe roofs even to sleep on a floor. But they were given leave to camp just inside their mine. That was where they spread their bedrolls, after Rachel was helped to sit down and passed the water.

They had barely settled down to eat when a plainly dressed man approached.

“Are you the elf called Kynril?” he asked. “I've got something I'm supposed to deliver.”

Kynril stared at the courier, a thin, bruised Imperial who looked like he'd seen better roads. “How in Oblivion did you track me to _this_ dank corner of Skyrim?”

“I... well....”

“On second thought, don't tell me,” Kynril said, offering a few coins. “I'm sure the letter will explain all.”

When the man left, Kynril peeled the wax back with one finger and held the letter next to one of the lanterns to read. He frowned, passed the note to Ren'dar, whose eyes narrowed.

“Who wrote this time?” Rachel asked.

“It's only signed 'a friend',” Kynril said, as Ren'dar passed it to her.

_Dragonborn,_

_If you know the history of the Thalmor, then you must understand the danger you are in._

_Know that I will be watching your progress._

_Come to the Riverwood inn and rent the attic room if you have a change of heart._

Rachel handed the letter back to Kynril, and watched him as he stuck it in his bag.

“So.... What's this new danger?”

“There is no new danger, save the person who penned that,” Kynril shrugged. “A Blade, perhaps.”

“A what?”

“Blades,” he whispered. “Formerly Dragonguard. They've served as bodyguards and spies to the Dragonborn emperors of Cyrodiil as far back as Reman's empire. Which inevitably put them at odds with the Thalmor. Understand now?”

So that gave the Thalmor another reason to hate the Dragonborn, she guessed, and nodded.

“So, those people who attacked us earlier?”

Ren'dar laughed, and whispered. “No. Not Blades. Blades do not fight like they did! They were probably common bandits. And cowards, too.”

“Skilled cowards,” said Kynril, rubbing the stubble on his cheek.

“They weren't Silver Hand, were they?”

Ren'dar shrugged. “They didn't dress the part.”

Kynril yawned, then shook himself awake again. “They may not be Silver Hand, but I don't feel safe to rest until we put more distance between us and them. As for the letter, I doubt there are any Blades in....”

His words and face froze. “Delphine. By the stars.”

“Who?” Rachel asked.

Kynril blinked at her. “Breton woman. About twice your age. She's been evading the Thalmor for decades. If that was _the_ Delphine in Riverwood....”

“This one thinks it is too late to regret this,” Ren'dar said.

“I'll leave her be,” Kynril sighed. “We have other matters to worry about. We don't even _know_ it was her who sent the letter.”

They agreed to sleep soon after that, but it was a while before the mer stopped rolling over in his bag and his breathing slowed to a peaceful snore.


	17. The Lord

Rachel's leg was still very painful the next day. But luck finally found them again, when a carriage rolled into the crossing. Kynril immediately set to bargaining for a ride south. But the driver was not eager to let them on for the journey.

“Not a chance, elf,” said the Nord.

“It's not just me,” Kynril said, gesturing at Rachel and Ren'dar. “We have a woman who can barely walk. And we'll pay you, of course.”

“If you're paying, fine. Fifty to get to Shor's Stone, another fifty for Riften. That's not too much for you is it, elf?”

“Not at all, my friend,” Kynril replied, through a forced smile. “That's very kind. Mara bless you.”

Once the driver's back was turned, he made a rude face that seemed a bit unsuited for a mer, let alone a justiciar.

The ride that followed was silent. There was no conversation that Kynril and Ren'dar seemed eager to have with or around the driver, and the driver himself gave only curt replies when engaged.

Rachel began to wish for talk, as the carriage rounded the hills and ascended into a gold and red forest. Something hung in the air. Something still and dreadful.

It was like being in the presence of something mightier, something enraged, something distressed. Worse than the time Ondolemar's anger had somehow left her too frightened to stand. Worse than the presence of a dragon, or a dragon priest.

Worse because no matter which way she turned her eyes, she could not see a single thing to be afraid of, and the dread only strengthened as the carriage climbed south up the hills.

The driver, the horse, and Ren'dar did not seem affected. Kynril, on the other hand, began to spend time looking around them, chewing on the corner of his lip, tapping his boot on the worn bottom of the cart.

“Kyn, are you feeling that too?”

The mer nodded. “All this magicka? Then I suppose I'm not going mad after all.”

The horrible air did not begin to ease until the next morning, an hour after they departed from the town of Shor's Stone. The road crept steadily higher, winding up the foothills of the Velothi Mountains.

Something white flashed in the corner of her eye. She looked up and saw a little orb moving in circles a fair distance from the road. Another joined it.

“There are wisps here?”

Kynril turned in his seat to look. “So there are. The woods here are said to be full of them. But they don't look aggressive right now.”

Another light, a ghostly figure, followed them between the trees.

“And wisp mothers,” Kynril breathed. “Is this a common sight?”

“They keep from the roads,” said the driver, unbidden. “They mostly like to drag away nosy travelers who go looking for trouble. But it's them giant spiders you need to watch out for.”

Kynril shivered and said nothing.

It was a relief when they finally passed between the stone and wood guard towers of Riften and approached the city gates.

–

When a night of rest at the Bee and Barb inn did not improve Rachel's condition, Kynril left the room to look for help. He came back a few minutes later.

“I've just asked the innkeeper. The city has a Temple of Mara,” he said. “If _they_ can't do something about your leg.... Well, they should be able to do _something_ about your leg.”

“Khajiit will stay and guard the room,” Ren'dar said. “You two go on ahead.”

The Temple of Mara was not the hardest building to find. It was large and close to the main road that ran around the city's edge, and red and gold flags bearing the seal of an intricate knotted ring sat on the mossy garden walls.

Once they passed the obstacle that was the stairs, Kynril pushed the temple door open, and supported Rachel inside.

It was almost empty. The only other person in the room was a young Redguard man, robed and hooded, and beside the altar. Obviously, the priest.

“Blessings of Mara upon you, friends,” he called. “Are you here to pray, or...?”

“We need a healer,” Kynril said. “Something is wrong with my friend's leg.”

“I see. Please, come to the back. We'll have someone see to it soon.”

They were led off to the side, through a narrow hall, and into an infirmary somewhere in the back. It too was empty, with no lingering smells of sickness or death. None of few beds along the walls were occupied.

Rachel settled onto a bed, happy to be off her good foot at last. Kynril took a chair nearby. Once the priest left, Kynril left out a long sigh.

“It is good that the Nords worship Mara, but... it is a relief to see that the doors of her temple are open to _all_ in this land.”

“Why wouldn't they be?” Rachel asked.

Kynril shrugged. “There are those who would turn the sick and injured away from Mara, believe it or not,” he spoke slowly. “They say only those closer to the Aedra can truly know Mara's compassion. Whether they deign to share that compassion with lessers is another matter.”

“Are you talking about Alinor?”

The mer shook his head warningly. “What would I know of Alinor...?”

Oh, of course. He wasn't supposed to be from the isles, in Skyrim. They sat quietly for a minute, until Kynril spoke again.

“Hang on? The Riverwood inn doesn't even _have_ an attic. What kind of Blade would–”

The door opened again, and Kynril nearly jumped out of his seat. After steadying himself, he turned to see who had arrived. The healer was tall, slender, and like the priest, hooded.

“An elven visitor....” This voice was very Alinoran, and very familiar. “I heard you escorted my patient here. I'm certain the ancestors smile upon your kindness, child of Mara.”

Kynril's eyes widened. He glanced up at the healer's face, then down to the floor.

“There is no need for such deference in this land,” the healer said. “Especially not in Mara's temple.”

“I.... This is unexpected,” Kynril said. “Welcome, but unexpected. Er.... Please, honored hand of Mara, my friend's leg....”

“Well, my Breton friend, what happened to you?”

Rachel had thought of a number of stories to explain it, but none seemed to truly fit. “I don't know. I was shot in the leg an arrow, but it came out and my friend healed the wound. But it hurts to walk now, and I can hardly stand on it, and it just feels... wrong.”

“An injury? We may be in luck. It could be a simple case of rockjoint. I'm going to try a spell. This will feel a little warm....”

A light from his hands, and a wave of heat rushed through her veins. But when it had passed, the pain was still there.

“Well, this will be a little more difficult,” the healer sighed. “Do you mind if I examine it?”

“Please do.”

The examination meant removing her robes and mail and rolling up the leg of her trousers. Which unfortunately meant standing again. She wobbled and laid back carefully while the healer began his inspection.

“I don't see anything wrong on the outside. The shape looks just fine.... No broken bones that I can see.... No torn tissues.... And you don't seem ill....”

He carefully placed his hands on her knee and ankle. “I'm just going to check for internal damage and magical disturbance.”

A strange sensation flooded the limb. It was as if the sun itself was shining upon it. Not harsh and searing, but warm, soothing....

“The leg is whole and well inside. But.... Ah, what is this? Two distinct bodies of magicka. Two souls,” the healer whispered.

Rachel panicked and jerked her leg away from him, and the shock through her knee was terrible. Kynril seemed to share her fear.

“That can't be! With respect, honored healer,” he stammered, “a mortal cannot possibly–”

“There is no need to fear,” said the healer. “All are the children of Mara. Your secret is safe with me. And I think I've found the problem. Are you from the Reach, by chance? That, too, would remain between us.”

Rachel nodded slowly.

“Your daedra is tied to your soul,” the healer explained. “It is an old magic, a bond between Reachman and Oblivion, passed down through families. But as with all forms of lycanthropy, there exists the danger of... accidents. When exactly did this pain start?”

“It was after I turned back into... uh... myself,” Rachel whispered. “Not too long ago.”

“You said you were shot?”

“Yeah, it... it made me change back.”

“It _was_ a silver arrow,” Kynril added.

“It seems your body thinks you still have the wolf's leg. But, with a bit of manual adjustment to your magicka....”

His hands glowed so brightly that she had to shut her eyes. She could feel her own magic shifting, flowing down her leg, into her foot.

“How does that feel? Try to stand.”

Rachel sat on the edge of the bed, cautiously put her weight on both feet, and stood. There was an ache, as if she'd walked a bit too much, but there was no awful pain and it held her weight.

“It worked. It... it really worked!”

“Excellent! You are free to go, but I hope you'll consider making a small donation at the front.”

The Altmer began to walk away. Kynril stood, handed her armor and robes back to her. She took them, relieved that she wouldn't have to lean on him anymore, that they could leave Riften quickly without pain holding her back.

“Thanks, Kyn.”

But the mer right in front of her wasn't the one who replied.

“Don't mention it.”

The healer quickly realized his mistake, and froze in his steps. Kynril turned to him.

“That can't be your name,” he said.

“You're right. It isn't.”

“Healer, wait. I...,” Kynril began to stammer. “You seem....”

The Altmer's shoulders sank. “Oh... by the Unknowable....”

He raised his hands, cast a spell that briefly illuminated the walls and door.

“This room is muffled to the outside,” said the Altmer. “We may speak freely.”

And he turned back to them, as if resigned. Kynril did not take his eyes off his face. Slowly, the Altmer lowered his hood.

He looked a lot like Kynril, from the curve and length of his nose to the width of his jaw and the very shape of his long ears. But his eyes were like amber, not green; his hair was straw-colored, not white; his skin was a very pale gold in contrast to Kynril's brown. He was half a head taller, and his features were just _slightly_ wrinkled.

“My name is Kyndoril.”

“It... it can't be,” Kynril whispered. “You're.... You _died_.”

“Don't stand there gaping like that, or a seagull will get your tongue.”

“Father?”

Rachel watched, taken aback, as the healer wrapped his arms around Kynril. As Kynril, startled, returned the hug. She watched with uncertainty in the background, and tried not to intrude.

“I don't understand,” Kynril said. “What happened to you? The Thalmor... they... they said you were swept out to sea!”

Kyndoril shook his head. “I'm sorry. I deceived them... and you. I can imagine what you must think of me now.”

“What is there to think? You're alive!”

Kynril took a step back as his father finally released him. Kyndoril eyed him carefully. “I... would have expected a mer of your station to be less than pleased, especially under these circumstances. Are you not Thalmor?”

“I... fear that is a disappointment to you.”

“I can overlook that. I am the one who must ask your forgiveness, my son. Please, sit. You are old enough now. There is much I must tell you, before we part again.”

Kynril looked at Rachel.

“I'll go if you want,” she said.

He shook his head. “If my father allows it, I would ask you to stay. Please.”

“If she is your friend, I see no problem.” Kyndoril sat in one of the chairs, and addressed Rachel. “Besides, we both know _your_ dark secrets. Xen knows you would find this entertaining.”

Rachel sat back down on the bed, and Kynril took the space next to her.

“For you to understand any of this, I need to start in the late Third Era, before either of you were born,” Kyndoril said. “I was the firstborn of an old, powerful kinlady. One who had seen the rise of the first and second Aldmeri Dominion... and Tiber Septim. I was to inherit her holdings and become kinlord. And next in line was my sister. But our mother did not remain with us. She left, for reasons I did not understand then, and I took her place as High Kinlord. I was a bit younger than you at the time, Kynril. My sister, she was a child....

“And when I was about fifty, I had the idea to go to Tamriel. To travel the lands as a certain infamous queen once did. To learn all I could before settling down to rule. To... find your grandmother, and ask for her wisdom, and ask her to return.

“So, I left my sister and a steward and sailed to Cyrodiil. It was Four Thirty-Three. I intended to go back within a few years. But, shortly after I arrived....”

“The Great Anguish,” Kynril said. “You were in Cyrodiil during the Great Anguish?”

“It is still one of my greatest shames. I was not there to protect my kinsmer on Alinor. Instead, I found myself imprisoned beneath the Imperial City. And the Oblivion Crisis continued after I... escaped. I could not return to the Summerset Isles when I finally left that cell. The ships would not sail, for fear of daedra in the Abecean, and fear of Altmeri betrayal. And, I.... Well, I had unfortunately become known to the Imperial authorities. So, I wandered.

“I continued searching for my mother. I had the misfortune to stumble into Mehrunes Dagon's Deadlands, and the luck to find my way back to Nirn.”

“You... never said anything about going to Oblivion.”

Kyndoril grinned. “Of course I did! But you grew up and thought your old mer was telling tales.”

“What was I supposed to think? Floors aren't made of meat!”

“Mehrunes Dagon's floors are made of meat. And lava.”

Kynril's face fell into revulsion while his father went on.

“My travels took me to strange places in Cyrodiil. And... strangest of all was an Ayleid ruin near the city of Bruma....”

Kyndoril drew a deep breath, and stared at the opposite wall. “I found a strange mer in the depths of that place. But she was not my mother. She was another mer, one named Sillawe.”

Kynril fidgeted, but said nothing.

“She was unconscious,” the Altmer continued. “Asleep, and somehow bound to a great varla stone. I disrupted the stone, and she woke. She asked for news. If High King Borgas was still alive.... If King Laloriaran Dynar was alive.... You can imagine my surprise, to have met a mer from the early First Era.

“She had nowhere to go, she was greatly weakened from her thousands of years kept alive by magic, and she was frightened of Cyrodiil and humans. I carried her to Bruma and stayed with her while she regained some of her strength. I tried to let the guard forget me. And when she could make the journey, we went to Chorrol.

“We planned to return to the Summerset Isles when she felt well enough. Her recovery took years. And in that time, we fell in love. But... in my time in Cyrodiil, Summerset had broken away from the empire, angry that no aid or refuge had been granted during the Great Anguish. They had allied with Valenwood and reformed the Aldmeri Dominion.

“We could not reach the isles from Cyrodiil. Sillawe and I were forced to travel through Valenwood. The Bosmer were generous, but... I ended up pleading my case before a Thalmor commander to gain passage to Alinor. I was accused of treason, for my absence during the Great Anguish, and threatened with everything from imprisonment to death. But he took pity on us. He allowed us to travel to Alinor, especially for Sillawe's sake.

“I learned that since I'd been presumed a traitor or dead, my sister had taken charge of the estate and all our mother's holdings. When I turned up alive, she disowned me for abandoning her all those years ago, as... she was right to....”

Kyndoril sighed. And suddenly Rachel was reminded of another mer, one a little younger, kneeling on the King's Haven docks....

“I was stripped of my title and birthright, and Sillawe and I made our life where we could. Vulkhel Guard. It was not the comfort and luxury I'd hoped to share with her, but we were happy. We enjoyed over a hundred years together, despite the Thalmor watching our every move. And then we had a child. That was you, Kyn.” He smiled. “And she named you Kyndriel, for she had once feared that she would never see the sky again, but survived to see its beauty.”

“Why didn't you tell me that?” Kynril breathed.

“We gave the Thalmor another name for their records,” his father sighed. “One more... acceptable by their standards. I planned to tell you the truth when you came of age. You see... the Thalmor took an interest in you, as they had with Sillawe. Your mother and I... hoped to protect you from that.

“You were still a small thing when she passed to Aetherius, and I... I lost what little courage I had gained. I did not want to burden you, or worse, lose you to the Thalmor. They'd spent over a hundred years arresting, executing those deemed unworthy to live. Those of 'weak' blood, the old and the young who were too fond of Tamriel, children deemed 'eccentric'. So many kinsmer lost their children. I....”

“You don't have to say it,” Kynril whispered. “I'm not ungrateful, either. There's just... something I need to know. Where exactly did my mother come from?”

There was a long pause.

“Skyrim,” Kyndoril said. “Your mother was a Snow Elf. And I think you are as well.”

Rachel looked at Kynril. His face was frozen, in sadness, and some failed attempt at stoicism.

“I... I thought so,” he said. “Dragons have called me the same. I don't seem to get cold, when my companions do. I try to light campfires, and I freeze the wood instead. I suppose the Thalmor were not informed of this.”

“We did not tell them, but I would not be surprised if they suspected. They never did take their eyes off you or Sillawe.”

“I don't suppose they were pleased with you for your part.”

“Their gaze turned on me after her death. I began to fear that with a child that they could watch and study, without Sillawe around to produce more, the Thalmor saw no reason to continue to let me live. I waited until you were conscripted. Then I left. And my travels brought me here.

“I've spent my years in hiding honing my skills as a healer. It's... probably nothing compared to your cousin or grandmother, but it's far more than I ever imagined I'd accomplish in magic.

“Ah, enough about me. I'm sure you have quite the stories to tell.”

Kynril – or was he Kyndriel now? – fingered the braid in his hair. “I can't tell you much, unfortunately. I actually spent years in Chorrol, then got sent to a different commander. I've been serving under him for five years. And he caught this Breton creeping around a shrine of Talos in the summer,” Kynril added. “Rachel is... was a prisoner. She belongs to Alinor now.”

“I'm sorry for you,” Kyndoril said to her. “I hope your masters are treating you well.”

“That would... be me for the time being,” Kynril explained. “Ondolemar when this is all over, I believe.”

“What on Nirn has Ondolemar sent you to this place for?”

“I... I can't say too much, but, well... I am... apparently skilled at fighting dragons, and my mission involves investigating their return.”

“Apparently skilled?” Kyndoril frowned.

“He's Dragonborn,” Rachel said, and Kynril flinched.

“Rachel!”

“He can steal dragon souls.”

“Please–”

“Their _souls_.”

And Kyndoril laughed. He laughed until coughs broke through, then took a moment to wipe his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Perhaps I should have expected this. Yes, it _has_ been a day of surprises, hasn't it? My son turns up here of all places. My son, the only living Snow Elf I know, is Dragonborn. Just don't light the Dragonfires next, or the Thalmor might lose their patience with you.”

Kynril smiled weakly. “We've been here a while. We should go, before Ren'dar starts to think we've been ambushed. And in a Temple of Mara, of all places.”

“I have only one thing to ask, first,” said Kyndoril. “I will not stop you from returning to the Thalmor, but to them I have been dead for over thirty years.”

“The gulls took you a long time ago, I promise.”

“Actually, there is something else.”

The Altmer hesitated, then reached under the collar of his robes, pulled something off around his head, and offered it to Kynril. He accepted it with two hands. It was a round white amulet, with the image of a sun and its rays carved into its face.

“Your mother's tie to Auri-El. I have carried it all this time, and she would want it to be passed down to you. Her legacy is yours to carry now.”

Kynril slipped the cord over his own head and tucked the amulet underneath his shirt. “Thank you.”

“Well, I won't keep you any longer,” Kyndoril said. “May the stars light your path, my child.”

Kynril's hands clenched over his knees. Then he rose. “I won't be gone forever. Now that I know you're alive, perhaps... I'll return to Riften in the future.”

“It would mean a lot to this old mer.”

Rachel blinked. He didn't look a day older than thirty, by human terms. If she hadn't known better, known Altmer better, she would have guessed him to be Kynril's older brother instead.

Mer aged strangely. How old were Ghorza and Moth, she wondered. How old was Ondolemar? He had to be well over two-hundred, but didn't look much older than Kyndoril, who had to be at least two-hundred and fifty....

“And who knows?” A mischievous smile alighted Kyndoril's face. “Maybe I'll see you both here again someday.”

It took Rachel a moment to remember exactly where they were and what a return could imply. Then she felt the blushing creep in and was glad that Kynril responded instead.

“We– I– You haven't changed that much,” the Snow Elf sighed, and began to walk away. “Ancestors keep you, father.”


	18. Forelhost

They could not keep the secrets they'd learned from Ren'dar. If he was going to understand, Kynril reasoned, he had to be informed. Ren'dar gave his word that it would all stay between them.

But as the joy of meeting his father wore off, Kynril fell back into a familiar, anxious silence. He attempted to read what the inn could offer, but after a moment of watching him, Rachel noticed that his eyes merely swept the texts over and over again, without him turning a single page. He tried to sleep in the early afternoon, but spent the time staring at the ceiling and walls.

It was not until dinner that the silence was broken.

“This one guessed,” Ren'dar said, setting bowls of stew down on the innroom table that evening. “It was no secret among the Thalmor that your mother was not exactly an Altmer. You were timid about it, as you were with your Dragonborn identity. Ren'dar was surprised, but he was certain, when in the snowy Pale you did not freeze your elfy arse off.”

If Kynril was offended by the crude remark, he ignored it. “And my father thinks the Thalmor let me live... to study?”

Ren'dar's mouth drooped, but he began to work on his meal.

“What happens now?” Rachel asked.

“We... carry on,” Kynril sighed. “There is nothing more to be done. Tomorrow we travel south and find a path up a mountain.”

He fingered the cord around his neck.

“Why don't we go back to the temple tomorrow, before we leave town?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Rachel looked at the wall instead. “You know, to see your dad again before we set off.”

“Oh. Right. Well... no. It would be too easy to delay there....”

And there was nothing more to say, or to plan.

They rose before dawn, donned their armor, and left as the sun began to rise. Kynril paused, looked at the temple for a moment, then led the way out of the southeastern gate with long, sure strides.

–

Kynril's target was in the mountains south of Riften, high enough for the damp gold leaves and grass to give way to slush and snow. But the air did not bite and tear at her chest the same way it did in the Pale, her leg felt normal again, and Rachel found it easier to keep pace with the mer.

And she was glad, because the terrible feelings in the air were back.

But soon what was left of the path vanished under the snow. And after one slip, she followed his footsteps carefully. Especially as they approached old, wooden walkways against the mountain cliffs. She felt a bit more sure of her footing once they passed through a worn tower and trudged into the old courtyard of their second great Dragon Cult temple.

Kynril paused. Ahead, at a small camp nestled between the ancient walls, stood a figure in red and brown.

“Be careful with your words here,” Kynril said. “That is no legionnaire.”

And he marched forward. The not-legionnaire took notice, and barked an order in the harshest Colovian accent Rachel had heard since Markarth.

“Citizens! This area is off limits! You need to go back for your own safety.”

“I was sent here, Captain Valmir,” Kynril said, stopping just short of the camp. “I hoped word would have reached you by now.”

Valmir's eyes swept over the group, before resting on Kynril again. Then his face relaxed a bit, and his speech changed to something more Alinoran. “Ah, I remember. His Eminence's mer. You're here for the mask, aren't you?”

“I am.”

Valmir bent over and pulled a large iron key from a bag at his feet and handed it to Kynril. “This will open the doors of Forelhost. Be on your guard in there. This place was the last stronghold of Skyrim's Dragon Cult. And I'm sure you already know about the monstrosities waiting in there.”

“I'm experienced with the draugr,” Kynril said. “The sooner I get in there, the sooner you can leave this post, right?”

“That would depend on your success. But I'm _sure_ His Eminence's trust was not misplaced.”

Kynril stiffened before turning to head toward the doors. Then he stopped.

“By the way, Master Valmir....”

The more senior mer frowned.

“You might want to rethink this disguise before you leave,” Kynril said. “A Colovian accent and Imperial leathers won't exactly _ease_ suspicion in Stormcloak lands.”

It was not an appreciated remark, but Kynril seemed pleased with himself, and Rachel caught a smile as he unlocked the doors.

–

Kynril stood quite still in the entrance of Forelhost, several seconds after the door had closed. Rachel glanced up at him. In the dim firelight, she could see the beginnings of sweat, eyes gone wide, pallor.... He hadn't seemed nearly so fearful in the other crypt.

“Something wrong, my lord?” Rachel whispered.

“I'll go first,” he said. “Don't fall behind. Ren'dar?”

Ren'dar's eyes glowed, brilliant green lights in the dark. “He is watchful.”

And then Kynril began to walk, slowly.

Rachel followed close behind him with armor spells at her fingertips, and had to remind herself that Ren'dar, despite managing complete silence, was there.

The air cooled around them. And then shapes appeared. Tall shapes, wearing what might have once been fur and iron armor. Helmets with antlers.

She looked around frantically, waiting for one of the ghosts to attack, to move, to speak, to do anything. But nothing happened.

“Stars above,” Kynril breathed. “They're _mer_.”

He was right. Those that didn't wear helmets clearly had long, pointed ears.

“Are they friendly?” Rachel whispered.

“I... I need to teach you more about ancestors. And... er... deceased... mer who linger in such a form.... Let us concern ourselves with if they're benign.” Then he addressed the ghosts, who had merely watched. “We're sorry for disturbing your rest, honored ones. We... uh... humbly ask that you let us proceed peacefully.”

The ghosts did not depart, but one stepped aside, revealing a small door that they would have easily missed, and beckoned. Kynril looked around the room, took a moment to thank the ghosts, then led the way into the passage.

It came out in what looked like an ancient sleeping quarters, or what once probably served as one. The remains of wooden beds lingered, furs dusty and untouched for ages. Then there were the skeletons, most on beds, others scattered over the stone floor.

“They wanted us to see something in here,” Kynril said, stepping carefully around the remains. “That much was clear.”

He concentrated – Rachel noticed a glow around his gauntlets – then managed a spell of Candlelight and began to explore. She followed suit.

It wasn't long before something caught her eye. A book among the clutter, close to one of the beds. She carefully flipped the cover open. The text, in faint ink, looked a lot like the runes of the dragon language they'd encountered....

“Um.... This might be important!” she called. “Can't understand it, though.”

Kynril crossed the room and bent over a little to look. His eyes brightened as they crossed the page.

“Hm! Ancient Nedic script! You wouldn't be able to read it. The Nords used this before the Alessians spread their own tongue, their corruption of Old Aldmeris and Cyrod-Nedic across their empire.... But let's see....”

Kynril took the old tome in his own hands and began to read.

“'At the command of Lord Harald, we have swept our company to the south edge of our territories in an attempt to drive the Snow Elves up north to the main host of his forces.' Oh I don't like this human already. 'The first few days met with heavy resistance...' Oh, nice. '… but as we approached the eastern edge of Lake Honrich we have seen little and less of them.' Hmph. What a shame.

“'We've begun to receive reports of attacks back around Lake Honrich, and word has come from the front that we should pull back to be sure we are not leaving our rear exposed. If there is a stronghold of Elves here, we will surely root them out...”

Kynril gently turned the page, then frowned at the next lines.

“'It sounds impossible,'” he read more slowly, “'but we appear to have stumbled upon a massive hold out of the Dragon Cultists, who were believed to be wiped out during the Dragon War. The Elves must wait, as this is a threat we cannot ignore.'”

He bit his lip and read the rest in silence. Deeper worry lined his face. Then disgust. Finally, he closed the book.

“It would seem they found their Snow Elves here. But they'd poisoned the water in this place and then they took their own lives. Many of the Nords died from it before they gave up and left this place to the ghosts.”

“I don't get it.”

Rachel flinched at Kynril's owlish stare.

“The ghosts. The Nords were tracking Snow Elves, who disappeared before they found the Dragon Cult instead. The Dragon Cult, who left elven ghosts behind! Why? _Why_ am I surprised at this?”

And Kynril sat heavily on one of the beds. It creaked threateningly under his weight.

“The Nedes who landed in High Rock were integrated into elven society. This is of course where Bretons come from. The Ayleids took Nedic slaves. And according to Nordic legend, Ysgramor and his successors took Snow Elven slaves. They too would have been pulled into the bottom of Nordic society. It should not be surprising, then, that they were dragged into Skyrim's ancient Dragon Cults....”

The room was still empty, except for them. But it was darker since Kynril's spell had faded. Rachel cast her own light. Kynril stood again.

“We still need to find that mask, regardless. At least we won't be prying it off a Snow Elf,” Kynril said bitterly. “The Nords would not have granted a position of such esteem to a _mer_.”

–

Despite the heavy presence of ghosts and draugr alike, they were not met with any hostility until they reached the dragon priest himself.

Ancient writings in the temple had explained that the very same priest had ordered everyone present to poison themselves, to spite the siege and ensure some small victory in death.

And as his unliving body crumbled to ash and dust, the dreadful cold of the temple lifted. Rachel could no longer feel the presence of the ghosts. There was only herself, Ren'dar, and Kynril.

Kynril was not injured in the fight. To complete the ritual, he had to draw some blood from his own fingertip – but not before Ren'dar had cleaned the dagger for the task. Soon the mask was gone, and Kynril had healed the cut and replaced his gauntlet.

“It is a small comfort that my own mother could not have been here when this entire blight upon history occurred,” he finally said. “Do you remember the kings my father mentioned? Borgas and Laloriaran Dynar? The siege upon this temple came around two-hundred years before them. She didn't.... She wasn't here. There had to be other Snow Elves. This wasn't the end.”

He stood up.

“Five more of these things,” Kynril said, swinging his bag back over his shoulder. “We won't be done with this nonsense soon enough....”

“What is our next destination, then?” Ren'dar asked.

Kynril's eyes narrowed, and moved from Ren'dar to the doors further down the dragon priest's chamber.

“Some temple in the Druadach Mountains,” Kynril sighed. “It'll be a long road.... But perhaps we can pay Ondolemar a visit while we're in the Reach.”

“Missing the barracks already, Dragonborn?” the Khajiit laughed, and scratched his chin.

“No. But I would be lying if I said I wouldn't trade this just to see the old mer again.”

“Ren'dar finds your treasonous talk endearing and will not report it.”

The cold air and bright sunlight greeted them again as they emerged from the temple. And so did a strange sight.

A dragon, brilliant red with white wings, waited quietly in the upper courtyard.


	19. Odahviing

The dragon regarded them with nothing more than a stare, its long neck craned to look at them. Rachel risked a look away to see what the others were thinking. Kynril stood still, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword. Ren'dar had not touched his bow... yet.

It was the dragon who spoke first. First in Dragon language, then a more familiar one.

“ **Dovahkiin. You have not answered the joorre... mortal... voices. Those Greybeards.”**

It was a moment before Kynril answered. “Have they sent you for me?”

The dragon's nostrils flared. **“Sent me? I do not answer to mortals.”**

“I... uh... forgive my foolish presumption. I'm sure a great dragon must have a reason for deigning to speak to me,” Kynril said carefully. “Instead of trying to roast my company on sight. For that, we are glad.”

The dragon snorted, and a gout of flame melted the ice on the rock in front of him. **“You are bold for a mortal, fahliil. I am Odahviing. I am here... because you concern me. Strunmahhe, feykrooe... they were once** _ **my**_ **domain. Bron, fahliil... my subjects. My last worshippers, your kind.”**

Odahviing stretched his white wings. **“Do you understand what the elves saw in a dov... in dragons? The might of Auri-El. Alduin, his son, our leader... their only link to the heavens in their time of despair.”**

“I started to assume as much,” Kynril said. “But this does not explain your purpose.”

“ **Impatience. Irreverence. But no matter. I know that you have taken the mask of Rahgot. I know that you seek the others. But, little mortal, you must have known that one is far beyond your reach.”**

Rachel and Ren'dar both looked at Kynril.

“I... yes. I knew. It's in the Velothi Mountains. I was trying to think of a method....”

“And you were about to take us _back to the Reach_?” Ren'dar hissed, voice rising.

“Well, I....”

“He's right,” Rachel said, feeling a sudden jolt of anger. “When? When are you going to start telling us these things? We could have tried to find it while we were in Eastmarch!”

“I didn't want to drag us on a weeks long search through sulfur and wastes,” Kynril said, taking a step away. “And I was more concerned about your bad leg!”

Odahviing did not ask for their attention. He regained it with a small gust from a flap of his wings.

“ **I have an offer for you, elf. I will carry you to Skuldafn. You will have your mask from the priest who waits there. And then I will return you to your companions. We shall return within the hour.”**

Kynril's jaw hung open.

“Wait. I thought.... I am not rejecting your offer, but I had assumed that you allied with your followers and priests against the rest of the Nords? Nords who hold the Dragonborn as their champion against dragons? Why would you help me kill a priest?”

“ **You think that every Dovahkiin... every Dragonborn... was our foe? Foolish conceptions. And these long dead mortal priests are nothing to dov now. They have the power that you seek. I shall help you with this one priest. Do you accept?”**

Kynril hesitated. Then nodded.

“Then we depart.”

“One moment, dragon!” Ren'dar called.

Odahviing snorted again, breathing a cloud of smoke over their heads.

“Do you know what you're doing, little dragon?” Ren'dar whispered to Kynril. “Shall we wait for you here? On this mountain, with that _hideously_ -dressed elf down there? Suppose you do not return?”

Kynril seemed to consider this. “Odahviing! Do I have your word that you will help me find this mask and return me here unharmed?”

“ **Cowardice? Distrust? If I wished to destroy you, you would have died the moment you laid eyes on me.”**

“Your word?”

“ **Very well. You have it. For whatever resolve it grants you.”**

An armored hand came to rest gently on Rachel's shoulder. And – she looked – Ren'dar's too. He did not look very reassured as Kynril patted them.

“If something goes wrong,” Kynril said, “if I'm not back within the day, return to Riften. Seek passage to Markarth. Ondolemar will certainly welcome you back to the keep. And I will follow unless I am dead.”

She found herself stepping closer to Ren'dar as Kynril approached the dragon. Odahviing lowered himself, just enough for the mer to climb up on his great neck. Then he rose as if the weight of Kynril, his armor, and all his things were not there. With a rush of wind, the two were in the sky, and then gone.

–

They climbed down from the wall where Odahviing and Kynril had left them. It involved some difficult footwork and then, in Rachel's case, falling into a steep snowbank that Ren'dar had managed to avoid.

Captain Valmir came to her rescue and led them back to camp, showing unexpected concern and wearing odd hide and bear-pelt adorned armor that might have been more imposing on a Nord it was fashioned for. But neither she nor Ren'dar had the nerve to tell him that an Altmer had no hope of fooling anyone with a Stormcloak uniform.

And it was not _her_ safety that Captain Valmir had in mind, she quickly realized.

“I see that dragon didn't eat either of you. What of your master? Did he find that mask?”

Rachel looked to Ren'dar to answer that; she was too busy trying to get dry and warm by the crackling fire Valmir had been tending. Besides, he was her senior, in winters and in service.

“He was successful, yes,” Ren'dar shrugged. “His Eminence has it now.”

“Good, good. So... where is he? Did the dragon...”

“It carried him away to get the next mask. They'll be back soon.”

“Two masks? In one day?” Valmir's eyes went wide. “Alinor will be pleased.”

Once he'd been assured that his mission was complete, Valmir ignored them and began to pack his things. Rachel watched quietly, hoping that he wouldn't demand that she or Ren'dar move to do his work. The mer didn't seem to need help. Once small things were out of the way, a little magic took care of the rest. Bedroll and tent were packed quickly. Spare armor and weaponry disappeared into a bag that should have been too small for them. And Valmir carried it all easily on his back, looking anything but burdened.

“I'll leave the fire for you, but if you're wise you'll find better shelter before it gets dark.”

“Very generous. Thank you,” Ren'dar said, warming his hands. But as Valmir marched away, the Khajiit rolled his eyes and let his mouth hang wide open, teeth and tongue bared. Rachel had to bite her cheek not to laugh.

“So, how long has it been since he left?” Rachel asked.

“Twenty seconds.”

“Ren'dar, please....”

“About thirty minutes,” said Ren'dar. “But given the distance between us and Eastmarch, this one would not be surprised if we had to wait another half hour. Even if dragons fly quickly.”

Rachel moved a little closer to the fire as the wind began to pick up.

“Do you think it's as cold in the sky as it is down here?”

“Most certainly! And wind makes it colder, and he is on the back of a flying dragon. But maybe being a Snow Elf will make it easier, hm?”

The air and the talk of cold didn't make her feel any warmer. So she opened her bedroll as close to the fire as it was safe and buried herself inside it.

“Hey, Ren'dar.... How soon do you think we'll be back in Markarth?”

He looked at her, and the corners of his mouth took a surprising curve downward.

“Ren'dar is sorry, Breton, but he would not look forward to seeing the city again if he were you.”

That didn't make sense.

“The Stormcloaks,” Ren'dar explained. “They were preparing to strike Whiterun when we left, and we have been gone for some time. We did not encounter Stormcloak presence on the main roads in Eastmarch, or the border lands of the Pale. Who knows how far west Ulfric Stormcloak has pushed?”

“But... that could mean Whiterun.... And if Markarth, then Ondolemar and the barracks... and Ghorza–”

“Ghorza and Moth are the best smiths in Markarth. The Imperials value their steel, and so should the Stormcloaks. As for the barracks.... Ondolemar is a compassionate commander, and the Thalmor are not beholden to the Empire. He will certainly send them away if it appears the city will be taken.”

“And... Ondolemar?”

And Ren'dar laughed, then shook his head. “You do not know him as he does!” he grinned. “Ondolemar is a fierce battlemage and if it comes to it, a master of shadows. Ondolemar will not simply let himself be killed.”

The telltale roar of Odahviing broke through the air. In moments, the dragon had spotted them and landed lightly on two thick legs. Kynril slid shaking off his neck.

“ **That is all the help I will offer, little elf,”** Odahviing said. **“Return to your fellow mortals, and remember my warning.”**

A cloud of icy powder and tiny shards, and Odahviing had taken off again.

Kynril did not stop shaking, even as Ren'dar stood and Rachel crawled out of her bag to greet him. He walked to the campfire, plate mail rattling, and nearly crumpled onto his knees.

“What is it?” Rachel asked, sitting next to him. “Cold? Fear of heights? Something else?”

“I can't do this anymore,” Kynril choked. “I... I can't.... Not this.”

“Kyn?”

Ren'dar pressed a waterskin into Kynril's hands, but he couldn't pull out othe stopper. Ren'dar opened it for him.

“I don't believe it,” Kynril said. Then he turned to Rachel. “You... were right. You were right, more than you knew.”

She stared, unsure what to say or if a response was even appropriate.

“That dragon told me everything,” he said. “He killed the dragon priest for me, then watched me... put my... _blood_ on the mask and send it away. He waited until I was done and then he told me.”

Rachel looked at Ren'dar for help, but the Khajiit was expressionless.

“Blood is how the dragon priests bound the souls of their cult,” Kynril moaned. “The one who controls the mask... he.... I've been giving my soul to the High Aldarch!”

An odd, bitter taste and panic swept in. “Your soul?” Rachel asked. “But– Elven priests aren't supposed to take souls, right?”

“Gods, no!” Kynril nearly yelled. “Souls are meant to go to Aetherius when people die! To bind one to this realm, is... is... it's unspeakably cruel! The High Aldarch isn't supposed to take souls, he's supposed to guide them!

“And he has four of the masks now! I asked Odahviing if it were different for dragons or people with dragon souls and he said consecrating the mask with blood is nonsense. I have only bound my own soul to the High Aldarch's will, four times....”

Ren'dar patted his hand. “Slow down. Breathe. Drink some water.”

Rachel waited for Kynril to calm down a bit. The fire was getting low. But Valmir had left some kindling behind, so she got up to add more wood.

Kynril finally closed the waterskin and sighed. “I don't understand. He said my blood would... wash away the grip of the dragon priests.... Help me find new purpose.... He didn't exactly _lie_ , did he?”

“Well, there's only one thing to do,” Rachel said.

Kynril looked afraid of what she had to say. And she wasn't sure _what_ solution to offer. Or if Kynril, still shivering, wanted to hear it. But she had already said something. There was no going back.

“Uh.... You should probably stop putting your blood on those?” she grinned nervously. “He wanted your blood on eight things. If it's only four, whatever he wants won't work, right?”

Kynril blanched. “But... that would be treason. To betray the High Aldarch? I might as well fall on my own sword and save the Thalmor the trouble.” He shuddered again. “Maybe.... Maybe this is how it's supposed to be. Maybe this is the price of my failures. Maybe placing my soul in his hands is redemption.”

“But the High Aldarch isn't supposed to do things to souls. You just said that!”

The mer stared into the ashes of the fire.

“The High Aldarch wants your Dragonborn soul for a reason, right?” she tried. “Why not try those Greybeards? They might know a thing about the masks and souls.”

“The fall of the Dragon Cult predates the rise of the Greybeards by centuries,” Kynril sighed. “And we don't even know if they're connected.”

Rachel watched him and combed through her memories for more ideas. It was mad. Everything had gone mad. But there had to be a way to convince him.

“So, how did the High Aldarch say your soul is going to stop this dragon crisis?”

Kynril blinked. “He.... He didn't say. Can we leave this until morning? I don't want to think right now.”


	20. Of Beginnings

They returned to Riften. Kynril was quiet. Ren'dar was not usually one for talking. And Rachel wasn't sure if anything she could say would help, either. Nearly all their time on the road was spent in complete silence, with no sound but the rustling of dry autumn leaves and grass.

Kynril was the first to speak again when they finally reached the city. And it was only to suggest spending the night there, and to order supper at the inn, and later to announce that he was turning in for the night.

Ren'dar left, as he often did. Rachel spent several minutes thumbing through her novice magic books, before giving up and climbing into bed, settling as close to the edge as possible.

She was not sure when exactly Ren'dar returned. But he made himself known by wedging himself between them and purring a little.

When Rachel had next awakened, the weight of Ren'dar's arm was gone.

She sat up a bit and looked over her shoulder.

Ren'dar was not jamming an elbow into her upper back anymore, because Kynril was gone and the Khajiit had rolled into his spot.

Memories of Dawnstar resurfaced, and Rachel bit back a particularly strong oath of Malacath.

–

Kynril hadn't gone far. Stendarr be praised, he hadn't gone far this time. Rachel, trying a new spell, followed the trail of his magicka, faint as it was, grateful for the pale morning light and weeks of travel strengthening her steps.

Away from the inn. Through the market circle and over the canal. The Temple of Mara? Though it seemed likely, he hadn't passed through the gate, but walked straight by, making a sudden left further down the stone road.

The city gate loomed ahead, and her heart lurched. But no, she realized immediately. He had turned again, and was close.

She slowed down there, and looked carefully around the gardens behind the temple.

No, it couldn't have been him.

But there was Kynril, sitting on his knees before Riften's Talos shrine, his head bowed and his hands clasped in prayer.

Carefully as she tried to approach, dry leaves cracked beneath her boot. The mer lifted his head and peered over his shoulder.

“You're up early,” he said. “I hope I haven't scared you and Ren'dar again.”

“Ren'dar's still asleep,” Rachel told him, uncertain of how to ask the new question on her mind. Instead of asking, she crossed the rest of the distance and sat next to him.

“Knowing him, he saw you leave.” Kynril turned his head back toward the shrine and tucked something under his shirt. “How did you find me so quickly?”

“You know me. I have a strong nose.”

“Funny. I... suppose this looks odd to you.”

“Well. Yes,” she sighed, glaring up at the cold gaze of the statue. “Considering you, and how I wound up with you, yes.”

“Look a little lower. At the feet. You'll understand.”

Ah. The serpent beneath Talos' boots, with the sword being driven into its maw.

“The night he caught me in the shrine, I noticed that,” Rachel said. “So, the snake's who I think it is?”

“Have you ever seen a Nordic Akatosh amulet? Another dragon, with a sword down its throat.”

“Then I guess you don't have to turn yourself in for this?”

Kynril smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “How? For the love of the gods, how did you do it?”

“I... don't know? What do you mean?”

“Here I am, caught between the hand of Auri-El on Nirn and the words of a dragon,” Kynril said quietly. “Was it like this, in Markarth? To choose between the guard and the Thalmor? How did you decide without going mad?”

She expected his face to be stiff and guarded again, when she looked. But no. There was only fear and regret.

“Well, now you know why I didn't give an answer until it was too late,” Rachel said. “What are you supposed to do, when what you know is suddenly out to get you, and the solution is what you're supposed to be afraid of?”

“That's – We don't even know if that's true!”

“That's my point.”

Kynril closed his mouth.

“But I also had reason to fear the guard,” Rachel went on. “That's why it was so hard. That's why I read for days. Asked you to take me to see Calcelmo. Ran off to talk to Ghorza. You know.”

Kynril shook his head. “I think I see now. I wasn't much help, was I?”

“You followed me when I needed you to help,” she said, watching a small moth flap away from Talos' arm. “You know... he told me to run away. Ren'dar.”

“Did he now?”

“Yeah. Told me he'd have run away to some other hold if he were me. You were on duty that day. You didn't hear. Come to think of it.... Ren'dar was why I was able to decide anything.”

She felt Kynril staring at her, but she kept explaining. “He gave me what I needed to know. Undeniable evidence that what Ondolemar said was true, remember?”

Kynril let out a long breath. “I wish it were that simple. How in hells are we going to find a Dragon Cult expert? Someone to tell us what those masks really do?”

“Well, we know a couple of things for certain,” Rachel said. “First, _something_ ties draugr to their priests. Second, it's just really creepy for blood to be used in a ritual. Almost always necromancy or daedra worship or something. I can't imagine even the Aedra demanding your blood.”

“' _Even_ the Aedra,' human?” Kynril grinned. “What is that supposed to mean? I jest. But... your words have truth. Hence my walk here.”

He was silent for a few moments.

“I'm not sure where this will lead me,” Kynril finally said. “But if you were to leave, I would not stop you. There are plenty of places a Breton may hide comfortably. Even a mage. Even you. Perhaps the Companions would take you in, if you are inclined to join them?”

“No!” Rachel hissed. “I'm not running off on you here. We've come too far for me to run now. And... besides... if we part here, I'll always wonder what happened to you and Ren'dar. How could I live like _that_? Besides, you know what'll happen if I get caught.”

“My own path may lead to similar consequences.”

“Well, I'm not leaving either of you.” And her mind screamed no, it was a terrible, horrible idea. Better to run far away now or go back to Ondolemar and maybe even beg to leave the Dominion's service. But no. “There's got to be someone who can clear all this up for us. The Dragon Cult can't have been forgotten by _all_ of Skyrim. We'll find something. Then you can decide what to do. And I'll be there for that.”

“Suppose we waste our time and attract His Eminence's suspicion? What if he catches us in doubt and treason? Then what do you propose?”

“Same thing you told me at the shrine in Markarth,” she shrugged. “We beg for forgiveness. In a manner befitting a dignified soldier and humble servant of the Aldmeri Dominion, of course. Besides... if he truly is good, he'll give you another chance, right?”

“Fair enough. But where do we find out about our... cult....” He paused, eyes wide and gazing at the Talos statue. “Of course!”

And with that, he practically leapt to his feet, then bent down and offered his hand to pull her up. Like that, he was back to his happier self. The one enthused at the chance to explore an ancient mystery.

Instead of releasing her hand, however, he bowed, and she felt his lips brush her knuckles. “Thank you,” he said, and straightened up. “Now.... Let's go bother Ren'dar. I'm not so sure he'll be keen on this idea....”

–

Ren'dar eyed the tray of sweetrolls and meats that Kynril had brought up to their little room.

“I sense that you want something beyond the bounds of my duties, Ja'Khajiit,” he said, folding his arms. “That, or you two had _other_ reasons for vanishing, and you want me to pretend it didn't happen?”

“Nothing like that.” Kynril set the tray down on their table. “Well, actually.... I was wondering if you wouldn't object to a slight detour.”

Ren'dar smiled. “Khajiit wonders if the justiciar is questioning the High Aldarch. It is a strange thing. But Ren'dar's loyalty is to the justiciar, and he will not object.”

Kynril stared at him. “Ondolemar told both of you that I am second to him and his superiors. His Eminence is certainly... superior to any of us. And you're both willing to do this?”

Rachel nodded.

“The High Aldarch is not even Thalmor,” Ren'dar said. “A powerful mer of Alinor who must be shown great respect, certainly. But Thalmor? He does not know if he is Thalmor. Khajiit takes orders from the justiciar until the day he returns to Ondolemar.”

“Please. This is a request, not an order.”

“They are the same thing from a justiciar. But tell him, what is it you want?”

Kynril stopped eating to look through his bag. “I can think of two leads. The Greybeards.... Or this.”

He placed the letter from Darkwater Crossing on the table between them.

“Are you serious? The Blades?”

“Before the Blades were the Emperor's guard, they were dragon slayers. Though... they are of Akaviri origins. So I don't know how much they can tell us about Nordic myth, unless they studied it themselves. On the other hand, the Greybeards know something of the Dragonborn and they did summon me.”

Ren'dar shrugged. “One of these things is certainly approaching treason.”

“I know that,” Kynril grimaced. “So I think it's safest to start with the Greybeards. If they don't have answers....”

“Ren'dar agrees....”

Rachel paused in the middle of biting a sausage as they looked at her. “What? Seems like a good idea to me.”

“You know the gravity of what we're doing, but you still want to follow?” Ren'dar asked.

“I don't think I get it the same way you two do, but I know it'll be very dangerous if we're caught. I'm coming along anyway.”

“It'll be cold,” Kynril said. “We're going to climb up to High Hrothgar.”

“Well, we've already been to the Pale with just some furs....”

“A mistake I still apologize sincerely for. You'll both have proper cloaks before we reach snow if I can help it.”

“What about you?”

“You two come first. I'll be fine without.”

“Come on, is this some tough Altmeri lord thing?”

Kynril grinned. “It's more like a Snow Elves don't freeze easily thing.”


	21. Paarthurnax

They didn't leave immediately. There were arrangements with the Riften stable to make, and heavy bear skin cloaks to buy. And none of them were enthused at the idea of rushing out of Riften so quickly.

The journey to High Hrothgar started the next morning. Once they were awake, anyway.

Rachel was pulled out of a warm, comfortable sleep by furry hands again. But after a bit of grumbling and some breakfast, she was as ready as the others to leave the Bee and Barb at last.

Kynril paid one more visit to the Temple of Mara. For his sake, the others waited outside, until he emerged with slightly watery eyes and steadied himself with a deep breath of the dawn cold.

Then they loaded themselves into a carriage outside the city gates, paid the driver (who was much more amicable than the last), and were off.

Whatever presence had covered the hills of the Rift, it left them alone now, just as it had vanished from Forelhost. No wisps or wispmothers showed themselves. Their only worry was the occasional giant, hairy spider creeping between the white trees. And most of those that approached the cart were easily sent running, subjected to waking nightmares only a spider could have under Kynril's illusions. The rest fell to one of Ren'dar's arrows.

The spiders had their revenge in the night. While they did not attack, or even come near, the acute awareness that there were huge, people-eating spiders _somewhere_ within a mile made for uneasy sleep, and every sound that was probably from tiny, harmless animal or an owl jerked her back awake.

This went on for another two days, until on the third night they plodded into Ivarstead's inn, sore from days of just sitting around, legs already heavy with the anticipation of climbing the tall, snowy mountain that loomed above the village.

–

The size and relative darkness of High Hrothgar reminded Rachel of Understone Keep. But it was not, she reminded herself, as the monastery's warmth began to soothe away the two days of mountain cold. There were no Silver-Bloods or Markarth guards lurking in the halls. Only old monks – all Nords, all men – in gray robes, who watched them closely as they entered.

It was Kynril whose voice broke the silence. “Honor and praise. I apologize for the intrusion of my company, but....” He turned his head just slightly, as if inspecting them all. “I must request an audience with your grandmaster.”

“Who are you to approach us and make such requests?” spoke one of the Greybeards.

“I am Dragonborn.”

“We shall see. Shout at us.”

“... I don't understand.”

Rachel looked behind Kynril's back to Ren'dar, who stared quizzically at her, as if thinking the same thing – that it was a really bad idea to unleash a blast of wind at a bunch of old men.

“Do not be afraid,” said the Greybeard. “You will not harm us.”

“Very well, then....”

Rachel stepped back a little as Kynril cleared his throat and inhaled. The blast of his Shout echoed through the halls, and while the Greybeards stumbled, they were mostly unmoved. And that unnerved her. She had once toppled over because of that Shout, and Ondolemar... Ondolemar had been as a rag doll before its power.

“So, it's true! The Dragonborn arrives at last.”

The Greybeard's impatience was not hard to miss, and neither was the scowl in Kynril's voice.

“I was delayed by circumstance beyond my control. But I have found opportunity to visit, and I am in dire need of aid. And I'm certain that you would not call without reason...?”

“Do not mistake our summons for need, Dragonborn,” said the Greybeard. “I am Master Arngeir. We have trained Dragonborn and other disciples of the Voice on this mountain for millenia. Now, we extend the same offer to you.”

“That... is a generous offer, but my time here is limited.”

“Understand, we do not ask you to devote years of your life to study. Nor do we expect it. All others may spend their entire lives meditating, honing their Voice. But you are Dragonborn, and such rules do not apply. The Dragonborn has an innate gift. What we could teach you would take less than a day.”

“I think I understand that,” Kynril said. “I have never had to _practice_ a word that knocked someone over. It merely happened. The first time, it happened of its own accord.”

“Then you have glimpsed the dangers of the Voice. I myself speak for my fellows, for they could kill with but a whisper. With training, we offer not only knowledge, but discipline.”

“That is... undoubtedly important. But I cannot stress the urgency of my visit. I must ask again to see your grandmaster.”

“Patience, young Dragonborn. When you have honed your voice, you will be ready to speak to Paarthurnax.”

“What? Paarthurnax? Your master is a _dragon_?”

Rachel looked from him, to the startled monks, to the hall and corridors, half expecting to see a scaly head on a long, spiked neck poking out to watch them.

“How did you come to know this?”

“You just _told me_ ,” Kynril said, sounding very much like the smug justiciar she remembered. “I've been studying the ancient folk of northern Tamriel for years, and I'm pretty sure that a venerable and wise human leading a peaceful monastery wouldn't dub themself an overlord in Dovahzul.”

“This one could see it as some attempt at irony,” Ren'dar pointed out.

Arngeir ignored Ren'dar. “Your scholarly pursuits are admirable, but they cannot replace what we have to impart.”

“Then I shall return when the rest of my business is finally concluded,” Kynril sighed. “Unless any among you can tell me of the ways of Alduin's Merethic Era worshippers, I must see Paarthurnax.”

“You ask of blasphemy. The Greybeards follow the example of Jurgen Windcaller, not–”

“Ancient dragon overlord it is! If you will not introduce us, then let us pass. I assume your great dragon master is waiting outside?”

The danger in the air was noticeable. Not the crackle of magicka Rachel had learned to be wary of near wizards, particularly elven wizards. But a dreadful and ancient heaviness, with a certain spite that reeked of scorned men.

“You are as stubborn and immovable as a dov! Very well. The doors behind us will take you to the path you seek. Go, and see if your pride grants you passage.”

–

They faced the archway with some unease. Kynril watched the blizzard rage in front of him. It was certainly magical, being small and confined to the only path leading up the mountain. And its intent was clear. Maybe Kynril would not freeze to death if he entered, but the others would, and none of them could survive being blasted off the cliffs by the winds. It the drop didn't kill them, the night would.

Rachel did not like to imagine the thoughts of the monks behind them. But Kynril paced and stroked the growing stubble on his jaws, until at last, he looked up and turned to face the Greybeards again.

“Is it true, Master Arngeir, that a... word of power is Dovahzul, dragon language, projected through one's Voice into a Shout?”

“That is correct. But without knowledge of the right words, the storm before you remains impenetrable.”

“You also said that the usual restrictions do not apply to the Dragonborn?”

“Your Dragon blood will not allow you to walk into such fierce cold unscathed!”

“That is already within my advantage. But my friends do not share that blessing. So, I have little choice....” Kynril faced the raging clouds. “Auri-El, too, is a dragon.”

His voice hardened. And his next words were not common Tamrielic, but something that she was almost certain was Altmeris.

“Abagaianye lorkyndi....” Kynril drew a deep breath and raised his head higher to shout at the storm. “ **KYND** _ **SILLE LATTA**_ **!** ”

There was no tremor this time. The winds on the mountain merely ceased, leaving the clouds of snow and diamond dust to settle. And beyond them, where the very skies had opened up, were waving walls of green and red Aetherial light.

Kynril lowered his head again and coughed a bit. “That... was crude. And it worked.... It... it actually worked....”

“By Alkosh's scales, so it has!” Ren'dar exclaimed. “Clever. Very clever.”

“I don't think the storm is gone forever. And I would rather not do that again.”

Rachel looked back at the Greybeards, who had frozen with shock. Then, one by one, they turned and withdrew into their monastery. Then she ran to keep pace with Kynril and Ren'dar.

–

It was no small thing to meet a dragon. But after their battles with other dragons, after meeting Odahviing, seeing the great, gray Paarthurnax curled up and resting on the summit's rocks was not such a surprise.

Like Odahviing, he deviated from Dovahzul to address them. But though his voice was impossible to miss, Paarthurnax spoke in what might have been a whisper to such a large creature.

“ **Visitors? Drem yol lok,”** he rumbled, raising his head. It reminded Rachel of a bird.

Despite the air of calm and peace, Kynril looked ill. “F...Fivefold venerations, great one.”

“ **It has been many years since I held tinvaak with fahliil... with an elf. What brings you to my mountain, Dovahkiin?”**

“I seek knowledge. Guidance that I think only you can provide.”

“ **Drem. Patience. When two dov meet, tradition must be observed.”**

“Does it involve Shouting at each other?”

“ **Yes. Observe my power. Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you can.”**

Rachel edged back behind the nearest rock, and so did Ren'dar. For an instant, she dreaded that Kynril would be thrown off the summit, or scorched with flame, but Paarthurnax lifted his head to the moons and bellowed, **“YOL TOOR SHUL!”**

The flames briefly warmed the air and lit the dark mountaintop. And then he lowered his head to watch the stunned elf.

“ **Do not fear. Strike me now with your Thu'um.”**

Kynril's fire breath with nothing compared to a dragon's, but he managed it. And yet, Paarthurnax was satisfied.

“I hesitate to ask this of you,” Kynril tried again. “But to know that you are dov gives me... er... more hope that you could assist me.”

“ **There is no need for fear, dov fahliil....”** Paarthurnax raised his head again. **“Kaaz, mun, you may approach....”**

Rachel sheepishly stepped out from behind her rock, and went to stand near Kynril's side. Ren'dar was more cautious and kept his distance.

“My request concerns the time of Alduin,” Kynril said. “Not him, but his priests. I have already spoken to Odahviing....”

“ **Odahviing.... He is one of Alduin's closest allies. And yet you still live?”** Paarthurnax tilted his head for a better look at Kynril. **“Ah.... I see....”**

“I know that the souls of dragon worshippers were bound to serve the priests in undeath,” Kynril said. “Odahviing tells me that the ritual sometimes involved blood and a priest's mask. Is this true?”

Paarthurnax lowered his spiky head closer to Kynril's level. **“Dov may deceive, but we have little need to utter lies when our voices are so great. You were wise not to trust one of Alduin's closest. But Odahviing speaks the truth, young dov.”**

“Then I am doomed,” Kynril groaned, “unless there is a way to remove this curse.”

“ **You have given your blood? Do you have the masks with you?”**

“The four I've already bound my soul to are beyond reach.”

“ **Krosis. I can do nothing. What of the rest? You speak as though there are others you intend to seek. Why would you seek them?”**

Kynril seemed to shuffle nervously. Then, he apparently decided there was no point in lying to a dragon. He explained everything – his discovery that he was Dragonborn, the High Aldarch, his mission to do that High Aldarch's bidding in hopes of saving himself and his friends and protecting mortals from dragons. Not including Paarthurnax, of course. Because Paarthurnax, from what he could tell, was a noble dragon who bore no ill.

“ **Your High Aldarch deceives you, Dovahkiin. You do not need such power to fight dov. You are the key to death. And you are all that is needed to ensure the defeat of Alduin.”**

“Then... what on Nirn does he want? What am I doing?”

“ **The masks were given to joor... to mortals... by us. They hold great power. But we did not create them for alok-dilon... for necromancy.... That is the doing of sonaan... dragon priests.”**

Rachel could barely hold in the words, “I was wondering about that.” It took a second to realize she'd spoken outloud, and that Paarthurnax and Kynril were watching her. “I... I mean, it's weird. The High Aldarch is the most important High Elf priest, right? Why would he use Nord blood magic? What does he want with Kyn's soul?”

“ **I do not know your High Aldarch's intentions for the Dovahkiin's soul, but he would not be the first to corrupt the gifts of Dov for power. Perhaps he would become overlord of all. Such is the ambition of Alduin.”**

Kynril stepped away from Paarthurnax, and briefly looked at Ren'dar and Rachel.

“I do not doubt the words of another dov.” His voice shook. “Knowing this, great Paarthurnax... I... I cannot continue this work. But... I fear the wrath of my own masters. My companions... their lives would be in danger as well. I can't just run. But I dare not fight a High Aldarch. And... I cannot simply leave my soul in his hands, or ignore his threat....”

“ **Your master is as a greater dov. So too have many dov have fled before Alduin, and so he remains unchallenged.”**

“I have to stop a High Aldarch and Alduin. The hand of Auri-El and a god?”

“ **Courage,”** said Paarthurnax. **“To be Dovahkiin is to carry the blessing of Akatosh... of Auri-El. And the power of mortals is stronger than you think.”**

“Auri-El? Lorkhan never had anything to do with this...?”

“ **Lorkhan... Shor... he did not create fahliil or dov.”**

“Then... the Shrine of Talos?”

“ **When Talos arrived on my mountain, he stank of Shor. He used his Voice to conquer and deceive. And yet, he was Dragonborn. It is possible that what remains of his influence awakened Auri-El's blessings upon you. Even I do not know the full nature of it.”**

“I see.... There is just one more thing I must ask. You said you could break the curse on a mask if you had it. Could a Dragonborn do that?”

Paarthurnax tilted his large head. **“You need the masks whole, able to deceive a wizard who expects powerful binding magic. There is no Shout I could grant that would serve this need. But...”**

Rachel took a step back as one of the dragon's eyes met hers.

“ **... The magic you seek to undo is of mortal craft. Any wizard who understands the bonds of souls could find a way to alter it. Fahliil-mun. You carry a second soul in your mortal body.”**

“A second.... Oh. I'm... just a werewolf.”

“And a decent mage,” Kynril added. “And if we are to understand what my father said of Reach werewolves, and what Ren'dar said in Whiterun...”

“He saw you pull the other soul out of your body,” Ren'dar finished.

“Yeah, but... how can I do something like that with a mask?” Rachel asked a little louder than she meant. “I'm not a dragon priest!”

“No, but you're a mage. A Reachman. And a werewolf, no less. Did you know that the Reachmen hold Hircine most sacred of all gods? Your family must have been a line of werewolves, a... blessing not taken lightly among Reachmen, or someone had designs for you....”

“I don't know anything about being a Reachman. Or... how to worship Hircine. I'm not going to hand you over to Hircine either, so don't–”

“That is all true. But you have superb control over yourself as a werewolf, and you have once already removed the wolf at will. You are the strongest werewolf I've had the misfortune to encounter,” Kynril added, with a wicked grin. “What makes you so sure you're weak?”

“Oh... Oh, all right. It'll be more magic than I've ever done, but.... All right.”

“You won't have to figure this out on your own,” Kynril assured her. “We'll go back to Whiterun. Farengar ought to know something about this, or the magic we need.”

They looked up to Paarthurnax, and he stared back, unmoving, as if surprised they would ask for more advice. **“It seems you already have your answer. There is nothing more I can offer.”**


	22. The Harbinger

The monks were reluctant to let them sleep in the temple. But it was that, or let the Dragonborn and his friends sleep out in the snow, which would not do. Even if he was a stubborn elf of a dragon.

The company left as soon as they were able.

It was settled.

With Paarthurnax having confirmed Odahviing's warning, Kynril could no longer serve the High Aldarch. It was unlikely the Thalmor and Aldmeri Dominion would accept that.

Ondolemar would not approve, Rachel thought as she worried. But the words of Paarthurnax could not be ignored, and Ren'dar agreed that loyalty or not, the High Aldarch was too dangerous to obey.

But all they could do was pretend to serve, and sabotage. The High Aldarch was expecting his masks, and then there was the matter of him already having a pull on Kynril's soul. Whatever unnatural bonds Kynril had inadvertently set, they had to break. And they would be broken.

Whatever came next was impossible to predict. Rachel knew that. She suspected Kynril knew that, for he kept pausing to ask if she and Ren'dar really wished to turn their backs on the Dominion. If they were really content to risk it. And they had to remind him they'd agreed already, days ago, in Riften.

They trekked south and back down the mountain fast as they could, cutting straight west whenever a cliff wasn't in the way. Soon, the woods of Falkreath were in easy view, tall and black against the setting sun.

If only there had been a faster way down. A trail that didn't put them miles out of their way.

Not that Rachel was eager for them to finish their deception. It was familiar, the gnawing fear and desperation. To know that she had to walk into danger. It was inevitable. Whether she would make it out safely was another matter. And of course a new danger would present itself when they were done. It was a cycle that was never going to end.

At least Ren'dar and Kynril were there. Their company helped carry her spirit through the days, as they moved north and the rolling tundra of Whiterun swept out before them once more.

But they had not gone far into Whiterun when they saw it. Flying from a tall post near the farmland crossroads was a large banner – blue, with the thick white outline of the head and neck of a great bear. Whiterun had fallen, just as Ren'dar had predicted.

Kynril spoke first. “By Auri-El's scales. It happened.”

“It's a good thing we left when we did,” Ren'dar muttered. “Getting back into the city might be another matter.”

“What? We made it into Dawnstar and Riften okay,” Rachel pointed out.

“Those cities did not need to transition to Stormcloak allegiance. They welcomed it. Whiterun is different. They will be more guarded here.”

–

Ren'dar had been completely right. The next day found them stuck outside the gates, denied entrance to the very city that had been their home for a month.

“I've already told you, cats aren't permitted in the walls!” barked the Stormcloak guard. “Neither are strange elves, or your kind if this is the company you keep, woman. Now go about your business.”

Bitter hatred settled in her chest. And then she felt the gentle pat of an armored hand on her shoulder.

“Our business is inside the city,” Kynril said. “On what grounds are you turning away mer and Khajiit?”

“The law is the law, elf.”

“We've been here before and we never caused trouble,” Rachel tried, raking her memory for anything useful. “We're friends of the Companions. I served them before. Farkas knows us. He'll vouch for us!”

“You know the Harbinger? I doubt it.”

“Farkas is... what?”

“Listen, guard,” Kynril sighed, “I don't like to bring this up, but I am Dragonborn, and my business in Whiterun is crucial to my duties to Skyrim.”

“You're Dragonborn? Prove it, then. Go on. Shout.”

Kynril stared at him, then looked around for something safe to Shout at. But after he minute, he settled for the sky. The force seemed to shake the ground itself.

Yet the guard, even as he staggered from the blast, did not sound impressed.

“So you can make a little wind? Anyone could do that with years of training, just like Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. And even he isn't Dragonborn.”

Rachel wondered if perhaps a dragon dying and losing its soul to Kynril would convince him. But there were no dragons circling conveniently overhead, waiting for the most dramatic moment to show up and prove the Dragonborn right.

And Kynril _relented_. “Very well. We shall take our leave. May your unwavering loyalty serve you well.”

Rachel hurried to his side as they began the long, winding walk down the hill and over the bridges. “What now?” she whispered. “Are we just going to the Reach now? Is there another....”

Kynril gave a small smile. “Ren'dar? Tell her what you learned in Last Seed.”

“Whiterun is a large, old city, with many old fortifications and towers, built from the bottom of the hill up. There are other ways in.”

With another hour of walking carefully between the city walls and farmland, they found it. An abandoned guard tower, nestled in the cliffside, just out of sight of anyone who might happen to pass through the fields.

Next came a short climb to reach a door, a mage light to help them see in the dark, and a quick walk up a tunnel hewn out of the gray rock of the hill.

A small chamber greeted them. A chamber, and the weight of magic on the air. Rachel could have sworn it came from the stone font in the center. There was also the smell of blood....

“Where exactly are we?” Kynril asked. He gazed at the ceiling as though he had never seen stone so amazing before.

“We are behind Jorrvaskr,” answered Ren'dar. “Beneath that great stone eagle and the fires of its Skyforge.”

“I can't believe I didn't notice it before. This presence. It feels like the Temple of Auri-El back home....”

“What about this thing?” Rachel waved a hand at the font. “This smells like some daedric bullshit to me.”

“Well, knowing that the Companions have werewolves, this is probably the site of some Hircinic ritual,” Kynril said, his face falling into a scowl. “Beneath such a holy site, too....”

Something about that struck her. “Kyn. What you just said.”

“Yes?”

“Maybe they make more werewolves in here. Maybe this place is used to bind souls of Companions and daedra.”

“I doubt the lycanthropy of the Companions stems from Reach magic, if that's what you're thinking. But it is said that a werewolf is bound to Hircine after death, so you may be on to something.”

Whatever he said next sounded might as well have been said through water, for she missed all of it.

A werewolf, repeated her mind. Any werewolf? All werewolves? Of course Hircine was connected to werewolves. But were all werewolves stuck with Hircine after...? No, that couldn't have been right.

And suddenly, he and Ren'dar had found the other door, and were calling her name.

“It's best if you go first,” Kynril said. “I doubt the guards patrol the training yard, but we need to be careful here. Better they see a human, even a Breton. See if it's clear and then we'll follow.”

Rachel stuck her face out into the clouded daylight. Of course no guards were there. The Companions could fend for themselves. And one of the Companions looked startled to see her emerge from the rocks.

Rachel offered a quick wave, hoping to appear friendly and that they remembered her. And then she motioned for Ren'dar and Kynril to follow. They walked briskly down the edge of the yard and Rachel reached for the great wooden door as she had done so many times that summer.

As soon as she'd pushed the door open, she caught the eyes of a Nord at the hall table. What was her name? Aela?

“Well, look who it is!” Aela said, and Rachel wished she hadn't, because heads did turn. “Here to join at last?”

She hadn't expected the Companions to miss her entering the hall. But to be remembered and recognized....

“Wait, is that your elf friend? And....” Aela stared as Kynril and Ren'dar hurried inside. “How did you get here? Those idiots at the gate wouldn't let Athis come back until Farkas went to fetch him!”

“Yeah... uh... we kind of....”

“May we speak to your Harbinger?” Kynril asked. “Farkas now, I believe...?”

“You don't have to ask,” said Aela. “You can find him downstairs. Just head down there and keep walking down the hall until you reach the end.”

Back to the living quarters Rachel went, with Kynril and Ren'dar following. She had an idea where Aela meant. She'd taken swords and shields and axes down to their owners plenty of times. But not once had she been asked to deliver anything to Kodlak Whitemane, the last Harbinger.

Farkas was sitting in a chair at a table in the far corner, squinting at the pages of some book. He turned his head at their footfalls, and seemed just as surprised to see them as Aela.

“I guess you want help with something? I thought the mage pup would come back someday, but you can't all be here to join the Companions.”

Kynril gave a small bow. “Honored Harbinger–”

“Don't get so formal, elf.... I'm not even used to all this. Still doesn't feel right, sitting in the old man's spot....”

“As you wish. We've come here to ask for... assistance.”

“You've come to the right place. What's the problem?” Farkas raised an eyebrow. “Wild animals? Or maybe someone's giving you a hard time?”

“Yes. The city guard.”

Farkas looked as though he'd been asked to take on a dragon with nothing but magic. “We fight a lot of things, but the law's not one of them. Neither are the Stormcloaks. Don't get me wrong,” he added. “We don't fight Imperials or... uh... you Thalmor types either.”

Kynril stiffened. “Thalmor? What on Nirn gives you the idea that we're Thalmor?”

“Sorry, elf, but you were _all_ covered in lavender and other Thalmor smells when you first came here. And those soft smalls of yours weren't made anywhere near Skyrim.”

“My _what_? _When_ did you get my–”

“He needed to track your scent when we rescued you,” Ren'dar said, as Kynril flushed deeply, jaw open in horrified betrayal. “And to be fair, those were perfectly respectable pants.”

Kynril turned back to Farkas. “So, you... you mean to say... suspecting all of this, you were willing to help my... companion? And come to our aid?”

“You left a scared werewolf all alone in Whiterun,” Farkas crossed his arms. “Ready to turn and get hurt or worse. But yeah. I helped you a couple of times. As long as you're not up to no good, I can help you again. Now... I'm guessing the guards didn't let you in, but you snuck in, and you need a place to hide?”

“There's a little more to it than that. We need to arrange a safe meeting with Farengar, if the Stormcloaks haven't ousted the court wizard. It is vital to my friend's research.”

“And to his duty as Dragonborn,” Ren'dar added. “This one assumes that means something to the Companions, even if the Stormcloaks do not care for traditions.”

“What? You?” Farkas leaned back. “I was already gonna let you stay, but that settles it. I'll go tell the others you're not here. You can stay down here for now.”

He rose from his chair, and they parted to let him pass. Farkas paused, and added, “Eat whatever's lying around. Except that.” He pointed to a large red lump on the shelf. “That's a daedra heart. You don't wanna eat _that_. Or.. uh... yeah, don't eat that deathbell either... or those.... Just eat whatever normal food you want. There's plenty of it.”

–

They didn't expect Farengar to come to Jorrvaskr just to tutor another mage. The great Farengar was much too busy to concern himself with the education of other wizards, beyond offering tomes on the basic theories and methods of spellcasting. The great Farengar preferred to direct people to the College of Winterhold, which was forever in a state of snow hell.

But Farengar _was_ able to make time to see the Dragonborn. And so he arrived the next morning, face red and shining with sweat, as if he'd run all the way from his chambers just for the opportunity. The Nord who'd been sent to escort him arrived several minutes later.

Farengar walked straight into the room, passed Ren'dar, who watched from the corner, and approached Kynril and Rachel where they sat, going through the many books on history that the last Harbinger had left behind.

“So, you're the Dragonborn!” said Farengar, grinning. “This _is_ exciting! The Emperors were one thing, but a Breton? Incredible!”

Rachel felt her cheeks burn. “Uh... actually... Kynril is the Dragonborn. I'm just a follower.”

“You?” Farengar turned his attention to mer instead. “Ah. Well. That... uh... would explain your interest in all things related to dragons, wouldn't it?”

Kynril raised an eyebrow. “I'll accept your apology.”

“You would of course be welcome in my study, as always.”

“I appreciate that, but Jorrvaskr is more secure. I have been assured that we may speak freely, away from the ears of the court and other unsavory persons.”

“Mind your words, master elf. It was Vignar Grey-Mane, who once resided here, who was appointed Jarl of Whiterun in Balgruuf's stead....”

“Let's just get to business, then.” Kynril gestured to a third chair, and Farengar took it. “Since my departure, I have journeyed around Skyrim, done important work, and climbed High Hrothgar. I have consulted the Grandmaster of the Greybeards. And now I have reached an impasse.”

“I'm not sure what you expect. I've nothing left to offer but what I've already shown you.”

“It doesn't concern dragons, but I hope it's within your area of studies. It concerns souls.”

Farengar looked only mildly interested. If he was interested at all, Rachel worried.

“Suppose a soul were bound to a physical object. Not as an enchantment. Imagine a tether to the soul of a living person. How would one sever that bond?”

“Did you get soul-trapped?” Farengar asked. “I don't think that's possible. The Dragonborn doesn't have an ordinary soul. Theoretically, the only one who could claim your soul would be another Dragonborn.”

“Suppose a Dragonborn's soul were bound to a number of objects held by a very competent wizard, who likely intended to use all of them at once.”

“That might be a problem. So, you want to know how to free trapped souls?”

“Yes. But that is where my Breton friend comes in. Rachel?”

“Oh. Um. Uh...,”she stammered. “Yes. The ritual used to trap the soul involved blood. The victim doesn't have to be killed for it to happen. It just needs their blood, and an object owned by the one claiming the soul, we think.”

Farengar's face started to light with interest again. “That sounds like Nedic blood magic.”

“Yes. That's what we think.”

“The usual way to break a soul bond is to destroy the object in question. If you can't do that, there's little I can help you with.”

Kynril bit his lip. “Are you telling me that souls can be trapped with a simple spell, but you know of no such way to release a soul?”

“Unfortunately, yes. That is what I am saying.”

Rachel sat and thought quickly, and chewed the inside of her cheek. Farengar seemed honest, but he was wrong. She would have to demonstrate. But would it be worth it? What would the mage think?

_Do it. Just do it already_.

It didn't matter. Not when someone else's soul was at stake.

“I think there's a way. I can demonstrate.”

“What? Are you sure?” Kynril asked. “You fainted last time.”

“I'm sitting down this time. Besides, I know more about what I'm doing now. This won't kill me.”

She felt their eyes on her as she gathered her magicka, and remembered what exactly she had done in the training yard. It felt like years ago.

The daedra was sitting right there, somehow in her shape, in her own body. As if it belonged there. As if it was comfortable.

Maybe grabbing it and yanking it forth hadn't been the best way to summon it before. So instead, she tried to coax it. It took a minute, but the thing emerged, pulling with it extra magicka, and nearly all her ability to remain focused.

It was certainly a wolf. And it stalked about the room, head low and mane bristled, ghost-like form bending and wavering in the torchlight while it paused between Kynril and Farengar, then between Ren'dar and Farengar, to stare at the unfamiliar wizard.

And Farengar asked the obvious. “Did you just pull a second soul out of yourself?”

“Yeah. This daedra's been with me forever. And this is only the second time I summoned him–” The wolf growled. “Her, I guess. The first time, I was just trying to call a small daedra from Oblivion, after reading that book you gave me. She came out instead.”

“By the Divines! I've never heard of magic like this. I suppose next you'll tell me you're a Reach witch?”

Rachel stared at him. No! No, what kind of question was–

_Yes!_

And as visceral as the no had been, the pang when hearing the daedra was stronger. Rachel flinched and glared at the wolf, who merely gave a stiff wag of the tail before vanishing, leaving her feeling refreshed, if a little tired.

“Only a compliment, Dragonborn!” said Farengar. “And your friend's witchcraft will remain a secret, I assure you.”

“I'm sure,” Kynril snarled. “But now you see that it can be done. A soul can be removed, if only for a short time, without destroying what it's bound to.”

Farengar scratched his beard. “So it can. Still, I'm no expert on such matters. I have some materials about soul trapping if you'd like to see them. But that's all I can offer you.”


	23. Bound Souls

The court wizard came and went from Jorrvaskr. What he wanted with a bunch of warriors was anyone's guess. Maybe he wanted to hire them to track down more ancient things. Maybe he suspected some kind of sorcery behind their might and was eager to study it.

In truth, the court wizard was eager to speak to Kynril about dragons. Because no matter how desperate the mer's plight was, knowledge on the dragons could not be allowed to slip away. Especially if there was a chance he'd be soul trapped and never have the chance to speak of dragons again.

Kynril told him what they knew, avoiding the parts where he was a Snow Elf and Snow Elves had been part of the Dragon Cult. He explained his battles in Whiterun and the Pale and his encounter with Odahviing.

Rachel could not concentrate as well on reading with so much talking, and she left to find another part of Jorrvaskr to curl up in. Soul related magical theory was difficult.

The small room they'd been given for their stay was more suitable. Apparently Ren'dar thought so too. He glanced up from the desk, where he was writing something on vellum.

“Had enough of the wizard?” he muttered.

“Too much noise.”

“Ren'dar agrees.”

She settled down on the bed and opened the book again. The light was dimmer in there, but it was much easier to focus, with nothing but the scratching of a pen in the room.

Soul trapping was a little complex. One spell, and upon death, the victim's soul would fill a specialized, magical gem if the caster had one. The spell could be applied to weapons as well, to remove the need to cast before killing.

And of course, the methods of trapping souls were intended for creatures, not people.

And most methods of soul trapping required the victim's mortal body to die quickly.

To _bind_ a soul for a long term was generally considered necromancy, which, the author reminded her, was quite illegal throughout the Empire, especially since the days of the Oblivion Crisis, and 'even elves most devoid of basic decency or compassion do not practice it, for they see it as a severance from their so-called ancestors the Aedra and any possibility of immortality'.

Rachel rolled her eyes and tried to keep reading.

The realm of soul binding through other means was another matter. A number of rituals, usually those related to 'heathen gods', sometimes relied on the soul of a mortal, usually willing. And of course Daedric Princes could lay claim to souls and snatch them away from their destined afterlife, to inhabit their Plane of Oblivion instead.

She wondered, briefly, if Auri-El was one of those 'heathen' gods and they were mistaken in the High Aldarch's intentions.

Which was ridiculous, because if the High Aldarch had good intentions he wouldn't have lied to Kynril about what he had to do, so she kept reading.

Besides, why worry about that when Hircine probably had his own Plane, just waiting for her and every other werewolf....

But like the other books Farengar had provided, this one was not intended for teaching advanced magics to curious minds, and shied away from anything possibly connected to necromancy.

“I've got nothing,” she sighed, snapping the book shut.

There was no answer. And she realized that Ren'dar had stopped writing. She looked up, only to see that the Khajiit had left the room, and taken the vellum with him. As usual, it was little use wondering where he'd gone.

–

Rachel didn't want to say that Farengar was useless. But the materials he'd provided were little help.

With only a vague inspiration, from Kynril's words of Hircine and the book's words about Daedric Princes, she sought out Farkas instead. If the Companions were werewolves, at least one of them had to know something of the nature of souls. And if he'd been appointed Harbinger, it only made sense that he had to know _something_.

She found him downstairs, at the same table at the end of the hall, in the seat opposite of where he'd been before. He was reading again. And this time he looked absorbed in his book.

“Excuse me, Farkas? I've got some questions about....”

A different large, dark-haired Nord lifted his head and stared icily at her.

“Oh. Uh. You're... Vilkas, right? Sorry, never mind.”

“Whatever you have to ask Farkas, you can ask me,” Vilkas sighed.

“Really?”

He wasn't as warm as his twin. But the tired look in his eyes suggested that it was a stupid question, and that it would be equally stupid to run off.

“Just have a seat....”

“What do you know about werewolves and souls?” she whispered, taking the other chair, hoping that taking the Harbinger's seat wasn't some breach of etiquette.

“Hm. Farkas told me you might have questions. You're a werewolf, correct? When you die, your soul won't make it to your ancestors. You'll be taken to Hircine's Hunting Grounds, and spend all your time as a hound. You would know nothing but the hunt. The same fate awaits all of us with the blood.”

“Is there a way to get rid of it?”

She hated the idea of it just as much as she hated the idea of being some Prince's dog. But it wasn't just about her, she reminded herself. She could deal with escaping the Daedra later.

“It all depends on where it came from. Centuries ago, the Companions were cursed by the Glenmoril witches. Reachmen. Like yourself.”

Rachel felt herself grow cold, and decided not to ask. They'd probably smelled Markarth on her too.

“So you're saying that you _can_ break a bond between a soul and... something really powerful. Did someone do it? Stop being a werewolf?”

“Aye. Farkas. Kodlak sent him to gather the heads of the Glenmoril witches. Since they wouldn't share their knowledge of the curse willingly, it had to be taken by force. But then the old man died. We gave him the best funeral we could, at the Skyforge. It is our tradition. And then some of us tried to fulfill Kodlak's wish anyway. Farkas was able to take a head to Ysgramor's tomb and separate the man's soul from the beast. When Kodlak's spirit was free to go to Sovngarde, Farkas cleansed his own soul.”

Hope! There was hope!

“Speaking of that,” Vilkas went on, “he might still have a head somewhere if you think it'll help you.”

Rachel tried very hard not to make a face. A head? No. She had walked too far in the last months. There was no time to go grab someone's severed head and run across Skyrim to gods-knew-where just for the slight chance of becoming a normal human. But how to put it into words...?

“Thanks, but it's not me I'm asking for,” Rachel told him, mind running ahead. “I... just needed to know that souls can be freed from Daedric Princes and... other things. If Kodlak was saved, and Farkas isn't a werewolf anymore... I know it's possible. I just don't know how to do it.”

“Is that what you needed the court wizard for? And how did that work out?” Vilkas scoffed as her face fell again. “I see. Hmph. Wizards.”

“And... if I could learn how freeing a soul works....” She thought of those masks. They would be ordinary, if it weren't for magic.... “And then... and then maybe enchant something so it releases souls instead of holding them, maybe I could....”

“It sounds like you're onto something,” said Vilkas, “but I'm not the one you should work out magic with. Go consult your elf, perhaps...?”

“Oh. You're right. Thanks, Vilkas.”

And she hurried off, leaving the Nord to his reading.

–

Farengar could not be reached that day; he had been far too busy asking questions of Kynril and making notes, and when he was done, he disappeared from Jorrvaskr to return to Dragonsreach.

Rachel instead spent much of her time thinking, combing through her mind to remember everything she knew of soul trapping, of what Paarthurnax and Farengar and Vilkas had said, and even the few things about necromancy and daedra worship she really shouldn't have known.

These thoughts occupied her to the point where she found her mind drifting during things like eating and conversation. Even as she and Kynril dined in the blessed privacy of their room.

Kynril bit another chunk out of his bread. “I hope you had more luck with the man than I did.”

He'd spent half the time ranting about Farengar and the man's stifflingly Nordic theories about dragons and the Merethic Era. So she felt a bit bad to tell him otherwise.

“Can't say the new book helped,” Rachel admitted. “But, I wound up talking to Vilkas. There's hope for werewolf souls. And if it's possible to free someone from the grasp of a Daedric Prince, we can probably free your soul from those masks.”

“Really? What is the method? What does it entail?”

“Apparently it means killing the one who took your soul, if they don't release you willingly. And sometimes doing something creepy with their remains. And considering the dragon priests are already dead and the High Aldarch is the one who's getting these masks....”

Kynril shrank back in his chair as if she were a dragon, and all he had to defend himself was a twig. Or, as his expression worsened, as if he _were_ the twig. A very dry, extra flammable twig.

“We can't kill the _High Aldarch_ ,” he squeaked. “The entire Dominion would come after our blood! And you can't imagine what they'd do to our souls....!”

“Yeah.... I don't like the idea either. So... another plan. The masks have some kind of soul bonding magic on them, right? Suppose we reversed that. A sort of... anti-soul trap?”

Kynril's face and shoulders relaxed as he considered. “That could work. I'm beginning to regret my lack of magical expertise. As I said, you're a competent mage. But charging you with my soul seems a bit much....”

The door opened, and Ren'dar walked in. It was immediately clear where he'd been for the day. He was covered entirely in bulky cloth, furs, and skins, with only a bit of his face showing. It was the best possible cold-weather disguise for a Khajiit in Skyrim.

“There you are!” Kynril said. “I was starting to wonder if something happened to you.”

“He was never in danger.” Ren'dar undid the clasps of his hooded cloak, brushed a bit of snow off, and hung it up on one of the bedposts. “Ah.... Pardon this one. He must adjust his tail.”

Apparently he'd stuffed it down a leg of his trousers before heading outdoors. Rachel averted her gaze while he got things back where they belonged.

“Ah! Much better. But he might go back upstairs to sit by the fire.”

Kynril watched him leave, then pushed his chair back and stood as well. “There's something I want to see,” he said, picking up his own hat and pulling it low over his ears again. “Would you like to join me? You might find it interesting.”

Together, they walked past all the sleeping quarters and up the stairs to the mead hall. Rachel caught a glimpse of Ren'dar; he'd settled himself down at the long table, next to Athis, in front of a large slab of meat and several bottles of ale. They passed him quietly and pushed the door to the training yard open, slipping through and shoving it closed again before anyone else could object to the rush of cold wind.

Rachel pulled her hood up. And as she stared up at the darkened skies and snow, she realized what Kynril was curious about.

“The Skyforge?” she asked, just to be sure.

Kynril nodded.

It was just as Rachel remembered it. To the left, up the long curving stairs. The great eagle statue stood over the forge of the Companions, still and grim. The only difference was a surprising amount of snowberries and their leaves, some crushed, scattered around the site.

A faint warmth, one distinctly different from the embers of the forge, one that did not touch the snow, hung in the air.

“I never did take the time to tell you about the Aedra, did I?” Kynril said. “Behold, one of many images of Auri-El.”

Rachel gazed up at the massive stony face. “The Companions seem to think it's Kyne.”

“I've done my research. This site predates the Nordic invasion of Skyrim. The... Snow Elves. Those who lived mere centuries before my mother's time. They begged the Nords... Ysgramor's Companions... not to take this place. And this,” he waved a hand at Jorrvaskr, “is how the Nords answered. And yet... after thousands years in the hands of Nords, you can still feel Auri-El's radiance here.”

“I noticed Hircine more when I got here,” Rachel said. “Below, near that basin.”

“That, too, is curious. That itself seemed... profaned.”

She looked from the ground to Kynril for an explanation.

“Many old elven rituals involve the use of water and basins. Its proximity to this site _might_ connect it to Auri-El as well. But who knows when the basin was created?”

“Somehow I don't think the Companions know, or want to tell us.”

Kynril shrugged. “Back to Auri-El.... You're familiar with Akatosh, I believe?”

“Dragon God of Time, right?”

“Well.... You're not wrong. He has been a dragon, an eagle, and a mer. Akatosh is not Auri-El. And yet, they are the same. Xarxes knows how long humans have tried to destroy the elven parts of Akatosh....

“But Auri-El is not Akatosh. He is the ancestor of all Mer,” Kynril went on. “He defeated Lorkhan, with Trinimac's help. And then, he ascended from this realm to Aetherius, to show Mer that we could do it too.”

“Like Talos?”

Kynril cringed. “For the love of Mara, Rachel, please don't say anything like that when we return to Thalmor company. Mer are the descendents of the Aedra. Every day is a step closer to joining our ancestors in Aetherius. But we do not have aspirations of godhood. That would be blasphemous.”

“I guess that makes Talos look like a dick, then.”

Kynril snorted. “Yes. To put it bluntly. That, and the part where he threatened to destroy the Summerset Isles with a giant time-destroying automaton, and then the Empire made Elvenkind _worship_ him after he _finally died._

“But, as I was saying... Auri-El showed Mer how to ascend. I'm not sure how he did it, because we haven't seemed to pull it off yet. But the Ayleids were particularly fond of leaving statues of eagles carrying Mer to Aetherius all over their lands. And the mer in those statues? They carry the bow and shield, more symbols of Auri-El.”

Something snapped into place.

“So up here,” Rachel said, “we have a god who would carry people to Aetherius.”

“Mer. Well. Perhaps other mortals too.... But yes.”

“I mean, even the Companions.... They use this forge for funerals. Vilkas told me.”

“Well, that certainly suggests Kyne worship. She is, after all, the one who carries Nords to Sovngarde, or so they believe.”

“And below, we have a shrine to another god, whose servants drag the souls of werebeasts like me to Oblivion instead.”

Kynril's eyes met hers. He seemed to follow. “Do you think Auri-El could save you from the whims of Hircine, then?”

He hadn't followed, but she didn't blame him. Her idea was more vague.

“I don't know about that. But it gives me an idea. The dragon priests served the dragons, right? And the dragons are tied to Auri-El, who would help Mer reach Aetherius. And they were definitely stronger than dragon priests. So... well... who better to overrule ancient Nord soul magic than a _dragon_?”

“Paarthurnax didn't seem to think so. He thinks that any mortal is sufficient.”

“And,” Rachel persisted, “who do we know who is both dragon and mortal?”

Kynril's face fell. “I wouldn't even know where to begin. I am terrible at magic. It took me years of practice to get basic illusory arts right.”

“I'm not asking you to mess with strange, magical masks. But I do think something about you can help me.”

“If that is what it takes... very well.” Kynril turned back to the statue. “I trust you won't demand my blood or soul for your plans?”

“A bit too daedric for my tastes, my lord. No, keep your blood. The way those masks hid it, I don't think the difference will be that obvious anyway.”

Kynril smiled. “Thank you for all your efforts. And... you don't have to call me that anymore. Besides, no one listening expects it.”

“What should I call you?”

“Kynril will do. Or Kyn. Or maybe....” He paused, considering. Then he turned away to stare at the moons. “I suppose Kyndriel would... I mean... it's a bit womanly, isn't it? But... my mother picked it.... Ah....” He slipped into mumbling and brushed a loose strand of hair behind an ear. “Stars, if I don't honestly feel more like a Kyndriel. Just not _all_ the time, mind you.”

Gods. If he was getting at what she thought... well, she was familiar with that. But it had been so long since she'd had time to give it thought. And it wasn't one she wanted to dwell on in the middle of Whiterun. Oh, how it would stick for days to come.

“Whatever you choose is perfect,” she said.

“Mara's heart, I wish I knew. Kyn is easiest though, don't you think?”

“I'll call you whatever you like.”

“Thank you. Now... perhaps we ought to continue our discussion of Auri-El indoors? I can't imagine you're enjoying this cold.”


	24. Heartache

There was nothing more to be gained from Whiterun. Rachel and Kynril together exhausted what Farengar had to offer on the magic of souls, enchantments, and even (though they loathed it) necromancy.

Then the blizzard came. Quietly, Rachel was relieved. Another day stuck in Jorrvaskr was another day they did not march to the High Aldarch's purpose, another day she was not expected to tamper with magics she barely understood.

And if there was a place to wait out a blizzard, it was Jorrvaskr. The hall dug deep into the earth kept most of the cold out; if anything woke her during the night, it was an accidental elbow from Ren'dar or Kynril, and not a chill. The crackling fires above drove back whatever bitter winds entered as Companions came and left. (And the Companions left often. Someone had to make sure the more vulnerable people of Whiterun didn't freeze in their own homes. And that was just as honorable as fighting a snow bear naked, according to Farkas.)

Of course, the larder would outlast the storm. There was plenty of meat and drink. And one of the Companions demonstrated to Kynril the Nord custom of leaving a bottle of mead in the snow. The point of drinking something cold during a blizzard escaped her.

With no more material on soul theory to study, and no more interest in the books Jorrvaskr had to offer, Rachel turned to Kynril. And he decided to tell her about the rest of the Aedra.

First, a trinity of might and temperance. There was Trinimac, god of defense – of oneself and others – and strength of arms, long before he became Malacath. Stendarr, whose realm was mercy given to mortals, and not the false kind that Men offered in their conquests. Mara, whose compassion lived in every mortal. Rachel decided not to ask him about the less benevolent priests back in Alinor.

Magnus was responsible for bestowing magicka to mortalkind through the sun. Which was confusing, because she could have sworn there'd been a mention that Auri-El was also the sun, in some way. But Syrabane had a more direct connection with mortals and their study and use of the gifts of Magnus. Xarxes, recording many things, including the lives of all, rounded out the more magically aligned Aedra and brought them over to the rest.

Y'ffre was the god of life itself and the natural world. And then they returned to Auri-El, the father of all. Except for humans, Rachel suspected.

Then again, if Mer were the descendants of Auri-El, and Men were the spawn of Lorkhan, what did that mean about Bretons?

Rachel had expected Kynril to ignore such a jest, but he leaned on the table and stroked his chin where short beard had started to grow in. Either Lorkhan had adopted some mer, or the Aedra had embraced the strange human result of an Aldmeri union with Nedes. The latter seemed more likely to him, given the peculiar Breton affinity for the gift of Magnus.

She asked him of modern High Rock. It was part of the Empire, so it was subject to the same White-Gold Concordat, right? What did Bretons think of it? Was the Aldmeri Dominion there too?

Of course the Dominion was in High Rock, which remained Imperial. But as for the attitudes of the Bretons (which would certainly not be unanimous), and the purpose of the Thalmor, he could not say.

–

The blizzard had finally abated the last day, leaving Whiterun Hold with clear skies and far too much snow. The morning found them trudging through a transformed land that could have rivaled the Throat of the World and that mountain in the Rift, if Whiterun too were a mountain. The brown, grassy tundra was now a scene of white, under a vivid blue sky, with rare pines, mountains, and old Nordic forts breaking up the space.

It was beautiful. But the pain of traversing it soon detracted from that, for it was cold, and it was difficult to tell where the road was sometimes, and each of them lost their footing and fell face-first into the snow at least once.

Except for Ren'dar, who denied that the fall was an accident. He had merely realized that the effort of remaining upright was not worth the struggle, and thrown himself straight at the frosty menace rather than give it the satisfaction of making him trip. Given the cramps in her own legs from trying to prevent her last fall, Rachel was inclined to believe him.

The journey was slower than it had been two months ago. And as they inched further west, they began to curse that.

They found only more Stormcloak banners, hanging from towers by the gates of old forts. These places, they slept in, for anywhere with beds and stores of food and fire and shelter from the wind was good enough. And, it helped immensely that they tended to be abandoned by the Stormcloaks before they arrived. Gods knew none of them were willing to beg the Stormcloaks for anything. Not again. Not ever.

Their absence worried Kynril and Ren'dar. Nothing suggested that Ulfric's armies had simply died in their forts. They must have pressed on. But to Falkreath, the Reach, or the northern holds, they could not say.

Stendarr, not the Reach, Rachel thought as they approached the mountains. As the snow began to sink lower, where it had melted, where the storm of days ago had not been so fierce. Not the Reach. Markarth didn't need another Stormcloak invasion. It was the last thing the other Reachmen needed. Not that the Imperial alliance was good for them.

Worries resurfaced, in spite of Ren'dar's reassurances from weeks ago. It was not the fate Ondolemar and his guardsmer deserved, she thought, with growing dread. So Ren'dar thought they could escape. What if they couldn't? And what would happen to Ghorza and Moth? What would the Stormcloaks do to Orsimeri legion veterans? Even if they were the best smiths in the Reach?

It was strange, to hope for a few minutes that the Forsworn were everything Markarth feared, if only for them to keep the Stormcloaks far away.

The snow thinned to puddles of slush and muck. At last, they passed the empty dragon grave, where she and Kynril had once argued. The crossroads, where Ren'dar had found the body of the unfortunate Ohmes. The muddy road stretched up and into the Druadachs.

–

“Suppose we didn't go back,” Rachel said.

They walked through evening fog. Kynril kept his eyes on the rocks and crags surrounding them. They did not have the speed of a carriage, and being ambushed by Forsworn would be a very unfortunate end to their travels.

Ren'dar had run off, to scout ahead and prevent such an end. It did not seem to ease the mer's fears.

“Is this about abandoning the mission again?” Kynril asked. “You know that won't work.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But suppose we just keep going through the mountains, until we come out in High Rock, and then forget this business with the High Aldarch ever happened.”

“Then I would have no reason not to report back to the Thalmor, and I would be executed for desertion.”

“I don't mean actually forget. Suppose we didn't go back to the Thalmor....”

“Well, first we'd have to survive the Reachmen beyond the border of Skyrim,” Kynril mused. “Then, we'd have to worry about the Thalmor headquartered in Evermore. Any major port cities would be impossible to hide in because it's that much easier for the Thalmor to arrive there from Alinor. By the time we hit the Sea of Ghosts again, or the Iliac Bay, I would be a wanted mer, and I don't exactly look like most Altmer, so hiding among the living remnants of Merethic High Rock would be difficult. But, as for a Breton? I'm sure you could disappear into any city you wished, on your own.”

“Werewolf.”

“Or, we could be outcasts together.”

Danger aside, that idea did not seem so terrible. But it would have to remain that. An idea. To run would leave too many problems unsolved. As the sun dipped lower and darkness fell over the mountains, she put it out of her mind.

“We should make camp,” Kynril said, looking around. “Do you... see Ren'dar anywhere?”

He walked a little farther, and Rachel, feeling fresh dread take, kept close by.

Something was wrong, very wrong with the air. But before she could see why, Kynril had drawn his sword.

“Who's there?”

He was facing something on the road ahead. A shape, silhouetted against the dimming light, tall and imposing. Subtle and obvious. Ordinary and fey.

The winds swept the clouds away, and gold filigree on dark silk and leather caught the light of the moons.

“Are they Thalmor?” Rachel whispered.

“They... are.”

And Kynril made a show of sheathing his sword. Rachel wished he wouldn't. Despite all sense, that said they were still supposed to be Thalmor and it was only appropriate.

“Hail, Thalmor! Forgive my manners. The road has been–”

There was no warning but a sudden glow of blue-white. A great whirlwind of frost and dust sped down the hill, and Rachel's ward was nearly not enough to break it.

“What are you doing?!” Kynril yelped. “Desist! We are not your–”

Another whirlwind, and her ward broke, pelting them with shards of ice. Rachel gasped and covered her face and reached for different magic. When she pulled her hand away it was smeared with blood, but at least the stinging had stopped.

“Hiding behind a human, justiciar?”

The voice was unmistakable. Rachel had heard it often enough in Markarth, in the jarl's court, in the Thalmor barracks....

“Ondolemar?”

Kynril had to be right, she realized with horror. That particular magic in the air. The last time she had felt that, she expected the wrath of the Thalmor commander to follow. But... it had never come.

“Your service to Alinor ends here, Kynril of Vulkhel Guard!”

The mountains seemed to spin around them. And he began to advance. So this was the fate Kynril had feared for them?

But why? Why would Ondolemar do that? Ondolemar, who had saved her life. Ondolemar, who'd gone out of his way to help her, to keep her safe, to protect Kynril and Ren'dar....

Ondolemar drew nearer, heavy mace in one hand, more frost magic ready in the other.

What were _they_ going to do? Kynril had not drawn his sword again. He stood, poised as if to run. Or, perhaps, to fall over, to pretend to be very dead until Ondolemar left. Which had its appeal. It would be useless, though.

Perhaps turning into a werewolf would work. Yes, that would work. She could do as they'd done in Markarth. Be large. Be fast. Grab Kynril and run and hide.

Or maybe they would get lucky. Ren'dar would stop Ondolemar. Where on Nirn was Ren'dar?!

Werewolf solution it was.

But somehow, the daedra did not seem _willing_.

“M-My purpose is critical to the Thalmor,” Kynril stammered. “You... You must reconsider. Whatever past actions I... er....”

Ondolemar did not answer.

“My lord, what have I done to provoke your wrath?” Kynril began backing away, shield raised. “Have you not received my letter? Hasn't... hasn't the Embassy....”

A slight gesture, and Kynril lost his footing. He tumbled backwards, armor clattering against rocks and tree roots as he rolled down the hill.

Ondolemar was close now. Too close. Rachel tried to back away, and her legs threatened to stop working.

“Kneel, Breton.”

She nearly obeyed. But... no. She took another step back, mind rushing to think of some spell, any spell that would help.... Oakflesh was a good start.

Ondolemar paused, as her mage armor blinked into being, and turned his head to regard her. She froze. Gods, Oakflesh had been a mistake.

His voice was edged with scorn. “Is that a challenge?”

“I... I.... N...no, but....” Any words that might have been useful escaped her mind before they could reach her tongue. And Ondolemar's eyes only narrowed more as she stammered. “But....”

“I didn't think so. Now, _on your knees_.”

There was not even time to consider the order. Some spell seized her and shoved her to the ground. The Thalmor commander swept past her, ignoring her and her attempts to rise again, while Kynril yelled something behind her.

The next moments were a haze. Ondolemar's mace crashed against Kynril's shield. And he did not even try to retaliate.

On it went. Kynril made several attempts to duck past him, and Rachel sensed him fumbling with magic, something tugging on whatever bonds held her down and away from the fight. But Ondolemar would not be outmaneuvered. Wherever Kynril dodged and turned, he and his weapon and magic followed, eyes glowing with a terrifying light she had not witnessed in anyone before, man or mer.

Kynril managed to change their positions. He had higher ground. Markarth, miles and miles away, was at his back. And so was Ren'dar, if they were lucky. Where? Where was Ren'dar?

And still, Kynril refused to draw his sword.

There _was_ a sudden glow in his free hand, however.

His spell struck Ondolemar in the middle, and he dropped his guard. For a few blessed seconds, Rachel expected Ondolemar to give up, to retreat, or even to regain his senses.

But Kynril was rewarded with the back of a gloved hand across the face.

“Do not insult me with petty, half-formed illusions!” Ondolemar spat, voice shaking. “Weak, ignorant child! You know nothing of terror!”

Another spell – and Rachel knew it was the worst yet before Ondolemar even cast it. Kynril gasped, threw up what had to be the first ward she'd ever seen from him.

“Augh!”

The ward shattered, and Kynril fell back, rolling to a halt in a tangle of limbs and moonstone-steel. As Ondolemar advanced, Kynril...

Whimpered. And raised one arm, as if that would ward him off.

“Ondolemar, stop!” Rachel cried. “Please! Stop this!”

The Thalmor commander ignored her.

It was over. They were going to die. Rachel fought against her bonds, felt them loosen while Ondolemar focused his attention on Kynril. Kynril, who still struggled to return to his feet.

Another spell crackled at Ondolemar's fingertips. “Well, Dragonborn? Has your Voice abandoned you?”

Whether exhausted or beyond hope, Kynril did not rise. Or attempt to Shout.

“Mercy,” he groaned. “Please... please, have mercy...!”

“Pathetic!”

Rachel watched in horror as the icy blast overcame him. He could not even shield himself. Kynril crumpled back to the ground.

She realized, then, that she could move. In seconds she was on her feet, anger, fear, and perhaps her daedra companion speeding her. She did not know what she was going to do.

Stop Ondolemar, her mind said, as her nerve threatened to desert. Get Kynril. Get far away. Just like that one time in Markarth.

It was not to be. Ondolemar turned away from the mer. She felt the sudden surge of magicka. Its presence below.

As she fell, she threw her arms out before her, and summoned a ward.


	25. The Eagle and the Cat

All was dark.

No. No it wasn't. There was the soft orange glow of candlelight. Its dance on the rocky ceiling and wood beams above.

How her body ached. Unwilling to rise, she felt around with her hands. Someone had put her on a makeshift bed of straw and soft pelts, covered her from the shoulders down with linen and fur blankets. Her robes and armor and linens were gone. But, thank the gods, she'd been left in her smalls.

“Easy, Rachel,” whispered a familiar voice. “You are alive and safe. No harm will come here.”

“Ren'dar...?”

A furry head moved into view in answer. Oh. He was sitting next to her. “He is here. And so is Kynril, but he is resting too.”

“Ren'dar.... What happened? Where's Ondolemar?” she gasped, as memories quickly returned. She turned her head to get a better look at him. “Where am I? Where were _you_? Why are you–”

Ren'dar's ears flicked back. “All will be explained. But you must rest for now. And so must Kynril.”

“What happened to me?”

“You always were a _persistant_ little dog,” Ren'dar sighed. “Very well. It was a shock rune. You stopped its magic, but the force of such magic meeting such a ward...! Your ribs and arms were broken. They are now mended. But your body will remember the pain for some time, without more help.”

“And... Kyn?”

“Healed as well, but sleeping.”

An indignant grumble somewhere to her left refuted him. “I am not asleep.”

Ren'dar rolled his eyes. “Then why are you still in bed, Ja'Khajiit?”

“I don't feel like getting up.”

“You cannot hide in there forever.”

“I am mer. Mer can wait a _very long time_.”

Rachel rolled over, trying to ignore the aches in her side, and propped herself up on one arm. Kynril was lying on his back, with his head resting on his hands. Rachel stared. His _armpits_ had brilliant white hair too....

“Uh. Who healed us, anyway?” Rachel asked. “Because unless you weren't telling us something, Ren'dar, you don't use magic....”

Ren'dar shrugged. “This one is not a great healer.”

“That doesn't tell us much,” Kynril said.

“Fine. Ren'dar will go get him.”

And Ren'dar got up and walked away. Rachel heard hinges creak and a door snap shut.

Kynril pushed himself up to sit, adjusting his blanket where it threatened to slip too low. “He could have left us with more clothes....”

And then he stood, wrapped the blanket around his waist, and held it up with one hand while his eyes swept over the room. “Ah! That'll do.”

Kynril retrieved two large bundles of cloth from a low wooden table in a shadowy corner. But before dressing himself, he crossed the room again to hand one to Rachel. She shook it open – it was a very plain brown robe. One that was probably sized more for a Nord or an Altmer, but it would do, if she could find the sleeves....

And that was how Ren'dar and the mysterious healer saw them, when the door swung open again and they had taken a few steps into the room. The latter turned away, with an embarrassed, “I need to stop finding you two like this.”

Ren'dar snorted and closed the door again. “Ah, he should have left those closer.”

“Gods! Ondolemar?” Kynril yelped. His blanket slipped, forgotten. “What are you...? Why did.... Ren'dar, what is the meaning of this?!”

“He does not know why you are surprised,” Ren'dar shrugged. “Then again, he did give you a thrashing.”

“I must apologize,” said Ondolemar, his back still turned. “We had to disrobe both of you to heal your wounds.”

To say that Kynril sounded hurt was an understatement. “That's all you have to say? After you tried to kill us?!”

“I'm not done. Do let me know when you're covered.”

Rachel hastily closed and tied her robe, while Kynril turned to dress himself with a lot of indignant muttering.

“We're decent. Now what do you want?”

Ondolemar turned to face them. He was quite different, with no obvious threatening magic surrounding him, Thalmor robes gone and replaced by linens and gray leather armor with numerous straps, pouches, and buckles. There was no draping cloth or shoulder padding to make him seem larger than he was. And there was no hood framing his face. His eyes were just a little easier to see, and it was clear he'd been keeping his head shaved.

Ondolemar approached, slowly, and stopped a few feet away. And then, to her astonishment, the Thalmor commander knelt and bowed his head.

“I do not expect either of you to forgive the measures I took yesterday,” he said. “Or to trust me again. But I had no intention of killing you.”

“This is... not... what I expected from an interrogation,” Kynril muttered, as Ondolemar raised his head.

“This is not an interrogation.”

“Then what in Oblivion is this? You announce that you're going to kill us, then we wake up here, wherever this is, nearly naked. Starving and thirsty too.”

“Look beside your beds,” Ren'dar said.

Rachel did, and wondered why she hadn't noticed earlier. There was a waterskin there, and half a loaf of bread and an apple and some dried beef. Suddenly, there was such a thing as an appetite again. And she decided Kynril could do all the talking; her throat was too dry and her stomach was empty, and he was the leader anyway. Might as well let him handle business while she ate and drank quietly.

“I would have preferred to accept your surrender,” Ondolemar said. “Or to have avoided the ruse entirely and greeted you as a friend. But there were too many risks involved. You could not be brought here of your own will. You could have been seen by the wrong onlookers....”

“But _why_ , Commander? What is this? A Thalmor operation you couldn't warn me about?”

“No. I am no longer your Commander, Kynril.”

Kynril finally let out a heavy sigh, then sat back down on his pelts, eyes still suspicious. “Explain. Please.”

And Ondolemar did, while she and Kynril ate. He confirmed their growing fears; the Stormcloaks had finally invaded the Reach, taking its fortresses, its mines, and Markarth. And Ondolemar, not wishing to see his guardsmer slaughtered, had sent them out hours ahead of the assault, before making his own escape. After that, it had not taken long for the city to fall. The city guards who survived Sun's Height had remained snugly in the pocket of Thongvor Silver-Blood, who himself had collaborated with the Stormcloaks and betrayed Markarth to them, in exchange for the throne.

Ondolemar could not return to the Thalmor. He'd been meant to die in Markarth, to give his last breath there if needed. If that was what it took to draw Ulfric Stormcloak in.

(Which was a disappointment on Ulfric's part too, for as he had quickly learned, the man had not arrived to reclaim the city himself.)

“So you betrayed the Dominion,” Kynril said. “Why bother coming to me? I _am_ the High Aldarch's assistant. Authorized by First Emissary Elenwen. It would be my unfortunate duty to pass judgment. Or Ren'dar's duty.”

The Khajiit merely smiled. “You thought Ren'dar was Thalmor? Ren'dar is flattered. He is very flattered....”

From what her stomach did, Rachel felt as though the floor had dropped out from under them.

Kynril tensed. “How long?”

“Thirty years.”

“And all of us know,” Ondolemar said, “that you have no intention of obeying the High Aldarch's orders. Ren'dar has been keeping me informed of your travels. Everyone in this little hole in the ground is a traitor to the Dominion.”

“Ren'dar is no traitor,” objected the Khajiit. “Treason requires that you are loyal first.”

“That is not how high treason works, and you know it.”

“So... you're not going to execute us for defying orders?” Kynril asked.

“Weren't you listening? I have neither the authority nor the wish to do so,” said Ondolemar. “That fight was many things. And it was also a test. A test that I regret to say you failed. Miserably.”

Kynril froze.

“If you have any ideas of defying the Thalmor, let alone the High Aldarch, you must be ready to fight your superiors for your life. Had I actually wished to kill you, you would have died cowering on the ground.” Ondolemar gestured to Rachel. “And then your friend would have been left to fend for herself!”

“I... can't kill _you_ ,” Kynril said.

“And you wouldn't have been able to. I am still your better in combat, and I would have trusted you to stay your hand in the unlikely event of my defeat. But I had hoped for more of a challenge.”

Kynril stared at his knees and twisted his blanket in his hands. “I see. I have failed everyone here with my weakness.”

“Don't be absurd. You're alive. You merely failed to meet my expectations. I would have failed in my own duty to you if I did not test your courage. And now I warn you: you cannot expect the Thalmor to show mercy if you falter before them.”

“Noted....”

Rachel felt like she had to say something. Something inspiring to lift his spirits. Instead, what came out was: “You've fought dragons and creepy undead Nords. The Thalmor are just... small soft mortals who... are not dragons and undead Nords, right?”

Kynril lifted his head. “So they are. Commander.... Er. Ondolemar. You wanted something else?”

“Indeed,” the older mer said. “My foremost order of business is to bring warning. First, the High Aldarch. His Eminence graced me with the news that he commandeered your services weeks ago, and explained, in no uncertain layers of speech, that he did not expect you to survive.”

Kynril paled. “That... certainly lends our suspicions more credibility.”

“Second, as I am now a traitor to the Aldmeri Dominion, by extension, our Khajiit and Breton friends are as well. With or without their willingness to assist you in your plans.”

“What?!”

Rachel looked up at Ren'dar, who shook his head briefly while Kynril continued to protest.

“Commander, you cannot–”

“Just as I am no longer your commander, I am no longer their master. Their status in the Aldmeri Dominion was entirely dependent on my position and my grace. Despite my fall they remain, in the sight of the Dominion, extensions of my will. If they do not seek the favor of another Altmer, they will remain slated for destruction.”

“What of Elenwen? Or the High Aldarch?”

“Her Excellency does not take in pets,” Ondolemar smiled bitterly. “And Breton and Khajiiti tongues are not fit to lick the High Aldarch's boots.”

“In that case, couldn't we just pledge ourselves to Kyn?” Rachel asked.

“Altmer,” Ondolemar repeated. “It has always been known to the Thalmor that Kynril is half.”

“So we learned,” Kynril said.

“Ren'dar was thorough enough to confirm my suspicions of your Falmeri ancestry in his letters.” Ondolemar glanced at Rachel. “And even if the Dominion were to allow you to serve him, Kynril is expected to die in his own tasks. Once he passed, you would no longer be protected.”

“Being killed later's not much better than being killer soon,” Rachel said, rubbing her temples.

Kynril ran a hand through his hair. “I... suppose we could try my cousin. He's completely Altmer _and_ a Kinlord...”

“I don't enjoy squashing the hope out of you,” said Ondolemar, “but your lordly cousin is currently serving as a battlemage.”

“Or they could run for it. We already expected that we'd have to go into hiding if we escape with our lives,” Kynril said, then looked at Ondolemar. “Though, I did hope to claim all responsibility for... for my treason. That you would be there to protect them if I failed.”

And then he frowned. “Wait. Ren'dar said he'd been _pretending_ to be loyal for thirty years. And... you... have no objections to this?”

“You assume I did not turn my back on the Dominion until this year.”

“This is getting to be too much.”

It wasn't much of a surprise, Rachel thought. But yes. Her mind was still spinning from everything else. The fact that Ren'dar had probably helped lay Ondolemar's ambush. The fact that Ren'dar could have easily been an _enemy_ for so long. That the High Aldarch intended Kynril to die. That one lord's treason meant the Dominion was ready to _discard_ her, to _kill_ her so easily....

And the mer who pulled her into it all had never been Thalmor?

Ren'dar spoke up. “That is why he suggested you wait, and rest. He understands, you have many questions, and perhaps a lot of anger. To explain it all will take more time.”

“You expect us to rest easily, with all this new knowledge, yet so many mysteries left unanswered?” Kynril smiled tiredly.

Ren'dar shrugged and sat next to Ondolemar. “It's about time we told someone. Ondolemar? You start.”

Ondolemar shifted and sat on his backside to take the strain off his knees. “Where to begin? You all know that I was alive when the Crystal Tower fell. Like so many mer, I rallied with the Thalmor to reclaim our lands from the Imperials, and then ensure humans never again had the chance to allow such devastation to befall the Summerset Isles. I hoped that we would see the fabled glory of the First Aldmeri Dominion again. I was a foolish idealist.

“The Thalmor and their bloody work required more of me than my stomach would allow. I was far too lenient. And I was swiftly recalled to Alinor for... what they called reeducation. It... worked. Or so we all thought. But my weak tendencies continued. Your parents, Kynril....”

Kynril, who'd seemed more interested in his food, glanced up.

“I had the pleasure of meeting them in Valenwood, when they sought passage to Alinor after their mishaps in the Empire.”

“That was _you_? Wait.... _You're_ the mer who threatened to kill my father?”

“I took no pleasure in that part.”

Kynril scowled and went back to eating.

“Eventually, I was trusted with more important tasks again. I was sent to Anequina. Or Elsweyr, as it once was.”

Ren'dar grinned and leaned against Ondolemar, resting his head on his arm. “And this is where we met.”

“The Renrijra Krin had long been a particularly troublesome force behind many Khajiiti uprisings against the Aldmeri Dominion. Our friend was among them.”

“He was a thief. A spy. And when needed, an assassin,” Ren'dar explained. “Not much different from now. There was a crisis, not long ago. Jode and Jone vanished. There was chaos in Elsweyr. Without the moons, so many parts of life fell apart. And worse, strange things happened to our kittens. When the moons returned, the Thalmor claimed credit for it, and Elsweyr joined the Aldmeri Dominion. But not everyone believed them. Some were convinced the Thalmor stole the moons to frighten Khajiit, then put them back to win their loyalty.”

“And you believed them?” Kynril asked.

“Ren'dar did not know the truth of the moons. But he knew that the Thalmor had no love for Elsweyr and less for Khajiit. That we were slowly being used and destroyed.”

“He wasn't wrong,” Ondolemar added. “But thirty years ago, the Renrijra Krin made the mistake of trying to assassinate a very important dignitary from Alinor. They failed. Ren'dar's resistance to magic saved him from the worst of the counterattack. It was I who found him clinging to consciousness, spared him, and took him on as a... reformed asset.”

“Just like the Breton,” Ren'dar said, looking at Rachel. “Ren'dar was loyal to Ondolemar for thirty years. But never the Thalmor. He suspects this is true for you.”

She bit her lip. “So... you helped us because Ondolemar asked you to?”

“Ren'dar helped the sad Snow Elf because Ondolemar asked. The Breton just happened to be there. But Ren'dar did not lie in Solitude. He is not so heartless he lets a stray kitten wander alone! And, in honesty, he has begun to enjoy all this company. It almost broke his heart to plan last night.”

Kynril flushed. “So, are we to assume _you two_ were secretly undermining the Dominion this whole time?”

“Don't be absurd!” Ondolemar exclaimed. “Our operations would have been impossible without more help.”  
  



	26. Master of Shadows

What Ondolemar had somehow, no, miraculously managed to conceal, was his involvement with the Summerset Shadows. An extensive web of Altmer, Bosmer, and Khajiit (as well as a few non-Dominion sympathizers) fighting the Thalmor however they could. They robbed supply lines. They stole and forged documents. They assassinated the most dangerous and cruel of officers. They smuggled to safety anyone who needed to escape the Thalmor's wrath, from Dominion citizens to Nordic Talos worshippers.

But, as Ondolemar quickly corrected Kynril, they were not truly traitors to the Dominion. Not at heart. The Aldmeri Dominion was _supposed to_ be an alliance for the benefit of the Summerset Isles, Valenwood, and Elsweyr, just as it had been a thousand years ago, during the glorious reign of High Queen Ayrenn. The Aldmeri Dominion had once even been a safe refuge for humans, outside mer, and beastfolk fleeing their own lands.

No, the Aldmeri Dominion was not supposed to slaughter its own and hunt its refugees across Tamriel. Nor were they supposed to do half the things they did to the rest of Tamriel.

The Thalmor might have created the Third Aldmeri Dominion. But they were a farce now. An echo of an internal evil, of bloodlust and racism and cruelty, that the first Dominion had faced in its earliest years. Years when those who opposed the alliance bowed to Mehrunes Dagon and Molag Bal.

The Aldmeri Dominion would triumph, of course. It would take all the corners of Tamriel and swallow Cyrodiil. Talos would be destroyed, and no one, not Man, Mer, nor Beast, would assume his place. The damage wrought by thousands of years of anti-elven influence would be repaired. The petty kingdoms of Man would know Aldmeri order.

But first, as Ren'dar put it, the Aldmeri Dominion had to get its shit together.

And that was fine for Ondolemar, Rachel thought. But there was still the hard business of freeing Kynril's soul. And Ondolemar agreed. For in his view, High Aldarch or not, what the mer wanted probably strained the boundaries of what was acceptable from Mer and their dealings with gods – even creatures calling themselves the spawn of gods. Such schemes were too reminiscent of Talos, and that certainly wouldn't help anyone.

Some days were spent in that cave. That old, renovated, magically warded Imperial fort and cave that had been sitting in the Reach, right under everyone's nose for decades.

That Rachel and Kynril agreed not to betray the Ondolemar or the Summerset Shadows was not enough. Before they could leave, their confiscated armor had to be examined for any signs of scrying magic or anything else dangerous to them. And her battle wounds, though healed, needed more care to ease the aches and stop years of pain before they started.

But that wasn't so bad. She and Kynril were given a small room. It might have been some storage room, long ago, but two beds were shoved into opposite corners and they had a small shelf to stash away their belongings. They were allowed to enter and leave it as they pleased, and they were given comfortable, ordinary clothing that did not at all resemble the prisoner garb they'd become too familiar with.

Best of all, their quarters were close to kitchens and stores of food, near a circular dining hall where the Shadows maintained a decent fire for warmth. It was a comfortable setting to relax, and for Ondolemar to check the progress of her arms and ribcage, to magically soothe away the body's invisible attempts to remember grevious injury.

And it gave Rachel time to corner Ondolemar somewhere private and try to get answers to questions that plagued her since the summer.

She finally found him upstairs, outside. Standing on the parapet on the more secluded side of the fortress, where eagle eyes on the roads would never see him.

He stared while she closed the door. And then he turned back to his view of the pines and cliffs.

“You want something from me?” Ondolemar asked, when she approached and did not leave.

“Uh.... Yeah. There's still something I'm wondering about.”

He must have been expecting it. His reply was not a question, but a statement. “You wish to know why I helped you in Markarth. As you asked so many times while we were still in that godsforsaken city.”

“Well.... Yes. If... that's all right.”

Ondolemar sigh came out as a low whistle. “Very well. I am no longer bound by the station of a Thalmor justiciar, let alone a commander. And keeping such truths hidden pains me.”

He folded his hands under his arms against the mountain cold. “You might have already guessed. You were a link to the Silver-Bloods. I knew for years they were managing the Forsworn under Jarl Igmund's nose, but... as you have seen, there are limits to the Thalmor's power. Especially so far from Alinor.

“The Silver-Bloods were not exactly subtle, but with their sway over the guard and the jarl trained on one of the brothers, they managed to evade me for years. All their targets, people who would have been invaluable sources of information, were imprisoned or executed, and it was beyond my power to stop this.

“When Ren'dar saw Eltrys attempt to recruit you, we decided to watch you both. And as it happened, Ren'dar saw you slip out that very night. He feared for your safety and alerted me immediately. Imagine my surprise when you entered the shrine of Talos, of all places! It was convenient. Exactly the reason I needed to take you into custody, to hold you out of reach of the Silver-Bloods.

“The Aldmeri Dominion's claim to you as a prisoner made you dangerous to the Silver-Bloods. You can imagine their fears. That you had already met your fellow conspirator, that you were feeding me information that I would take to the jarl. The Silver-Bloods began to act more rashly in their fear and damned themselves. Ren'dar gathered more information than we'd had in years, including that journal. But we were unable to save Eltrys, and Ren'dar nearly lost his own life. These events, I still regret.

“You know the rest. Your own defiance, timid as it was. The poor manners but genuine concern of my youngest justiciar. The information you sought on your own and what Ren'dar left for you. Your lycanthropic jaunt through the city.”

Rachel's feet felt like lumps of iron. “So, it was... all about the Silver-Bloods, then? You just wanted me to help you expose them?”

“I did not expect action from you. And their failures leading to their exposure were a happy coincidence.” Ondolemar turned to face her. “But you did not deserve whatever fate the Silver-Bloods had waiting for you. You needed protection. And I was relieved that I could provide that.”

Rachel's hand moved toward her neck. To where the steel amulet sat, heavy and cold.

“Yes, I suppose you could call it mercy,” Ondolemar said. “You probably assumed that it meant I had spared you as a heretic. We both knew you were no heretic, or so I hope. My only regret is that you found yourself caught up in _this_.”

“I'm still grateful, my lord,” Rachel said. “Or... uh... actually, what should I call you now?”

Ondolemar chuckled. “Don't be so hasty to discard etiquette. I might not be your master, but I am Altmer and you are not. However... in light of your service, you may use my name.”

“Thanks... Ondolemar. For saving my ass, and everything. Never would have... well... nothing against you, personally, sir....”

She was worried she had said something wrong. But after a moment, Ondolemar responded. “The Thalmor of this age are undisciplined and neglectful of their duties. If the Thalmor are to say they serve the gods, they cannot neglect their precepts. The teachings of Trinimac, the sacred duty to defend those who cannot fight for themselves. The guidance of Stendarr, to look upon other mortals with mercy. I have attempted to remind my subordinates and superiors alike. If nothing else, the gods are... convenient for covering one's own weaknesses in the eyes of the Dominion.”

“I can't imagine the First Emissary was pleased.”

Ondolemar gave a wan smile. “She was quite displeased. As for that amulet.... While there is truth in it, you _should_ be wearing the sign of Xen, an oft forgotten god of repayment, for your assistance in Markarth. But to mark you as such a useful asset would have signaled a greater potential threat. And I would have been a poor master to give the other Thalmor reason to fear you.”

Rachel thought for another moment. One thing remained unanswered. “And... what would you have had me do? If none of this happened, and we all stayed in Markarth?”

“Honestly? You'd have been allowed to continue your apprenticeship with Ghorza gra-Bagol while studying more formal Altmeri protocol and beginning basic administrative assistance under my guidance, in preparation for any changes to your assignments. What did you expect?”

“Oh, you know.... Maybe working with Ren'dar... doing some kind of very humiliating job... getting involved in some weird plan to destroy the world....”

“What? What sort of Alessian nonsense is _that_?”

“Alessian...?”

“Ah. Forgive me. I continue to forget that your elders neglected the most basic history education. Ask Kynril about the Alessian Order when you think you can stand to listen to a frustrated mer talk about the erasure of early elven knowledge and history for five hours.”

–

It was best for her to keep her amulet, according to Ondolemar. Her connection to him was known by higher Dominion authorities in Skyrim, and discarding it too soon would only suggest she'd been informed of his treason.

Other things, though. Those had to be substituted for new equipment. And so, Ondolemar, gathered them in the dining hall one afternoon.

Kynril stared at the cloth and leather armor in his lap. It was not unlike what Ondolemar at the other Summerset Shadows wore, but not distinctive enough to mark him as one of them.

“This is... very nice. But I did have a set of plate armor, bestowed by the High Aldarch, and I fear that to discard it....”

“Our enchanters inspected it for magical tampering and deemed it a threat. You were tracked, no doubt. And the spells woven into the pieces made them suspectible to further misuse.”

“Tracked?” Kynril squeaked. “You... you don't mean....”

“If the mer were actually listening, we would have noticed and taken more drastic measures to cover ourselves. I believe your plans for treason are still unknown.”

“What are we going to tell the High Aldarch, then?”

Ondolemar smiled. “Your armor has been damaged beyond repair, and you were forced to stoop to alternative battle dress. You'll find this more comfortable to move in, less noticeable, and by arcane means, just as protective as steel.”

“He is never going to believe me.”

“Not with that sniveling lowborn demeanor.”

“I'm not ungrateful, of course.”

“I know, Kynril. I know....”

Ren'dar was happier with his new armor. It wasn't much different from what the Thalmor had given him, but several moons were stitched into the leather, and it did have a hood, with large sleeves for the ears.

“It has a mask! Ren'dar does not have to look at anyone!”

“Yes, yes. You may now deny the world the privilege of seeing your lovely eyes. Thought you'd like that, Ren.”

Ren'dar swished his tail and purred.

“Don't ask me how it works,” Ondolemar said, passing a large bundle of cloth and leather to Rachel. “But everything here should withstand your lycanthropic transformations, just like that mail of yours. I have the guarantee of our highest enchanters.”

“Wait, you can do that? That's not some... secret Aedric priest magic or something?”

“I told you not to ask me, and you have asked me! But I'll take it as a sign of your gratitude. May this serve you well.”

Rachel unfolded the cloth, revealing her own set of armor: leather, with a particularly sturdy chestpiece. And the cloth was a long hooded robe and a sash. A robe in a fashion that reminded her vaguely of the Thalmor uniform Ondolemar had once worn.

“If I'd known you'd see battle, you'd have worn something more appropriate when you left Markarth,” Ondolemar said. “I am _not_ going to make that mistake a second time.”

Then there was the matter of arms. Kynril had his sword and shield replaced new ones made with lighter materials, Ren'dar got a new bow, and Rachel could hardly believe what she was given: a staff. A staff of her very own, like the great mages in the stories. Something to help focus the magic of an Apprentice (for Ondolemar and the Shadows were quick to determine her stars), something to lend its power so she wouldn't always have to expend her own.

Her shield remained her own. Ghorza's sturdy work, untouched by the High Aldarch or the Thalmor, was augmented with force and magic repelling enchantments and returned to her.

–

Ondolemar did not insist in meeting Kynril in secret, as the High Aldarch had done. If the mer and his company were insistent on facing danger together, they should first discuss it together.

They met around an old wooden table in the underground, cave part of the hideout. Ondolemar had unrolled a map – one of the most detailed maps of the mountains Rachel had ever seen, and with Kynril's help arranged a few flags over its surface. Their tiny wooden poles flickered around the parchment in the candle light.

“So, you seek Valthume,” Ondolemar said. “Brelwyn and Khali'jo already know of this place.”

“Wait. Khali'jo? She's here?” Ren'dar asked.

“An old friend of yours, Ren? She was Renrijra Krin too, was she?”

“Same form as this one? Fur whiter than moon sugar? _Beautiful_ spots instead of Ren'dar's glorious stripes?”

“Yes.”

Ren'dar scowled. “This one thought we chased her off in Eastmarch.”

Kynril did not look surprised. Or betrayed. His ability to be either of those things had probably been exhausted for the month. But he was not done being irritated yet. “You knew our assailants? Then who was that Bosmer? The one who wanted to gut me.”

“Her Ohmes friend was Brelwyn,” Ondolemar corrected him. “And no, I did not authorize their action. It was a grave misunderstanding.”

“Then who was the third?” Rachel asked, and they stared at her. “Well... _someone_ shot me with that arrow.”

“I have already expressed my displeasure at Sorondil. He asked me to pass on his sincerest apologies if the moment ever occurred, as he is too cowardly to do that himself. Now, back to Valthume....

“We've been informed that the Forsworn have withdrawn from the surrounding hills. Their war with the Stormcloaks has diverted most of their attention. As for the barrow, it is guarded by a peaceful spirit who claims to be keeping a great evil sealed within.”

“The dragon priest,” Kynril said. “And his mask.”

“Most likely, though I wouldn't put it past the Nords to leave _other_ evils in their graves. I'm sure you three know that more than I....”

Kynril's lip twisted, but he said nothing. He shook his head. “And once we have that mask....”

“We... do the thing, whatever it is we're going to do,” Rachel said. “We mess up the soul bonds and send it away. However that's going to work.”

“We'll figure it out, I'm sure,” Kynril said, as Ondolemar watched them struggle. “We've got a theory.”

“Sort of.”

“We've thought our way out of... more immediate troubles before. We'll do this too.”

“We've no useful intelligence on the rest of the mountains,” Ondolemar warned. “But you can expect greater danger as you get closer to Markarth and its local ancient Nordic hole in the ground. Thongvor _is_ Jarl of Markarth now, and he has not forgiven the death of his brother, or the... temporary setback with the Reachmen.”

“So we found out. He sent an army of barbarian werewolf hunters to kill Rachel!” Kynril said. “They mistook me for her and captured me instead.”

Ondolemar's eyes widened. He looked from Kynril to Rachel and back. And then he voiced his disbelief in the least Aldmeri manner Rachel had ever heard.

“How in all hells did they fuck that up?”

“Poor communication. I'll show you later.”

Ondolemar cleared his throat. “Your third and final mask is alarmingly close to Northwatch Keep. Stendarr does not exist within three leagues of its walls. I suggest you stay out, unless dire circumstances leave you in need of assistance.”

Something didn't add up, literally speaking. And Ren'dar caught it as quickly as she did.

“And the fourth mask...?” he asked.

Kynril sighed and tapped a fingernail on the table. Then he picked up a spare flag and set it in another mountain range, between Morthal and Whiterun.

“Bromjunaar,” he said, with some fearful tension. “North Kingdom. An ancient and most sacred city of the Nords in the days of the Dragon Cult. It was... renovated, so to speak, by the Nordic mage Shalidor in the First Era.”

Ren'dar ears flicked. “Weren't we already near there? When we got the first mask?”

“The ruins we needed to enter were sealed up by some powerful force,” Kynril said. “The High Aldarch was still looking for a way to break the wards when we left. I... expected to hear news from him, at any time. A way to enter Shalidor's Labyrinthian to get to the last dragon priest.”

“Truly? Then we should hope he is not waiting there for us! It will make the escape that much harder.”

“You had an escape plan?”

“Ren'dar thought we could do that thing with the scrolls, then run away, before we are found, and maybe even see about getting rid of that Alduin. But Ren'dar should have learned long ago, these things are never that simple.”

“Fleeing down the Whiterun side of the mountains and away from the Thalmor is as good a plan as any....” Kynril crossed his arms and leaned on the table, eyes moving over the mountains around the last flag. “If you'll allow me to question your generosity, Ondolemar?”

Ondolemar shrugged. “I've misled our mage friend before, I've kept my loyalties hidden for decades, and I pretended to slay you to hide you. You have every right to question my motives now.”

“Is there anything you want out of all this?”

Ondolemar leaned back in his chair. “I hate to say this, Kynril. I expect great deeds, certainly. You might cause some disturbance if you kill a High Aldarch. You might spare Skyrim and Tamriel from the terror of ancient Nordic artifacts. But this will not undermine Thalmor power in Alinor. That is a war that began before your time, and even before your father's time, and it may last for centuries.

“That is not to say it will not help,” he went on. “I'm sure the Shadows can take advantage of the aftermath. My only request... is that you three get out of this alive, if you can. I have seen far too many youth have their lives snatched away, for the sake of a fleeting hope.”

“Ondolemar, you mustn't talk like that,” Ren'dar said. Then he gave a playful smile. “You are only three-hundred!”

Well, Rachel thought. That was a far cry from fifty, and her accidental insult of Sun's Height.

“Then it's settled,” Kynril said, breaking up Ren'dar's laughter. “We head for Valthume in the morning. If... the Summerset Shadows will graciously host us another night.”

–

A soft voice spoke far too soon. Just like that, sleep ended. Oh, yes. It was Kyn.

“Wake up, now.”

Rachel sighed and rolled over in her bed.

“Come on, now.... We can't stay in this room forever.”

“Can't we?”

The flop of clean linen clothes on her back was probably a 'no'.

She looked up at Kynril, who was already in his new armor. Of course the elf got up with the sun, she grumbled to herself. And somehow he didn't look bad for it. The leather and all its straps and buckles suited the mer somehow. He looked almost like some daring rogue… in some story that Ghorza taught her to read with.

Speaking of rogues.

“Where's Ren'dar?”

“Ah, he must have slept in. But I'm sure he'll pounce on us around breakfast. Now, have you ever put on a cuirass before? You might need a hand with the buckles.”

Ren'dar did not pounce, when they finally made their way to the fort's dining hall, fully armored and ready for adventure. He merely waved them over to where he and Ondolemar sat, and pushed the pots of food and some bowls at them.

As they stepped out into the Reach morning fog an hour later, Rachel caught a glimpse of Ren'dar gesturing to Ondolemar. Ondolemar leaned forward, and Ren'dar gently pressed his forehead against the mer's as they bid farewell.


	27. Echoes of the Ancients

They moved west through the mountains, not on the road, but through the hills. Kynril led the march, and Ren'dar trailed behind Rachel. He did not run ahead to scout, or to report to another ally waiting to beat them up. He trusted the Shadows that the hills were clear. And with the exception of a few sabrecats, they were.

After a few hours, the next crypt came into view. The rocky steps, overlooked by the massive sculpture of a weathered Nordic face, climbed up to an entrance cut into the mountains.

“Well, here we are,” Kynril said. “And this time, there will be no elven ghosts or dragons waiting to help us.”

“Ren'dar does not worry.” He had already brought out his bow, and his tail swayed as he led the way up the steps. “Ren'dar is itching to fight dead Nords and see this done.”

They passed under the ancient Nord face and into the vestibule. “Even that priest?” Rachel asked him.

“All the priest has is magic. It is just a little more... challenging. The Apprentice-born Breton has much more to worry about.”

The darkness fell around them quickly as Kynril shut the crypt doors. And inspiration dawned on her immediately. She had her very own mage staff, so why not try casting a mage light with it?

It was a little weaker than what she was used to, but it illuminated enough of the chamber for them as they walked.

Ahead, in a carved throne under a crack in the ceiling, sat a skeleton. Before Rachel could ask if the spirit Ondolemar had mentioned was nearby, it spoke.

“Leave, stranger.... Evil stirs in this place. I fear for the security of the very land should it break free....”

The spirit appeared, sitting over its own skeleton, casting a faint, ghostly light around it. Even in death, the ghost kept its old armor and horned helmet. A Nord, then.

“Do you mean the dragon priest?” Kynril asked. “We've come to put an end to him. Where is he?”

“You would do this? Three vessels in the tomb below hold the power to vanquish Hevnoraak. Before anything else, we need those....”

Kynril was apparently trying to sound mighty and composed, but his voice betrayed his confusion. “Why do we need them? I could just stab him.”

“Hevnoraak planned his resurrection extensively, mortal. He drained his own blood from his body. His goal was to return his power back into himself after death and become a powerful lich. Empty the vessels that contain his blood, and you remove any chance he has of gaining his former powers.”

“So, we need to smash the vessels. Got it.”

“No! You must empty them into the sconce.”

Kynril and Ren'dar turned and looked around the entrance hall.

“No, mortals! It is in the throne room.”

“Will putting his blood into the sconce weaken him, then?”

“It is essential for the ritual that will awaken him.”

“I thought you wanted to keep him asleep and away from his blood?”

The ghost sighed. It was a very long, deep sigh that chilled the air of the chamber.

“Or are we rousing Hevnoraak early?” Kynril tried. “Does he expect his draugr thralls to return the blood when he is ready, prepared to rise as a great and powerful lich?”

“So you _do_ understand the danger?”

“Well. Yes. To date, my companions and I have faced a few dragon priests. And they didn't need their _own_ blood to come back. That this dragon priest was even more ambitious presents a new danger. A lich! We're dealing with... with a Nedic Mannimarco!”

The ghost did not have an answer to that.

–

The entire creepy, but otherwise boring trip through Valthume was brightened by Kynril's tales of Altmeri history. Tales of Mannimarco, the evil necromancer who betrayed the ancient Psijic Order and the Summerset Isles and tried to merge Nirn with Coldharbour, before disappearing and then returning as a lich with an army of undead. Luckily, he was destroyed by Vanus Galerion.

“Who is Vanus Galerion, anyway?” Rachel asked him.

“You... what? You have _never_ heard of... Y-Yffre's breath, that is a giant spider.”

Rachel looked up at the high ceiling, where a spider to rival the great Nimhe was making its descent through an open iron grate. But before she could cast a ward, Ren'dar loosed one, two arrows. The spider was pierced through the head and dropped to the floor in a mess of legs. Many smaller spiders followed and met a similar fate.

“One day,” said Kynril, “we are going somewhere where the building does not rain large horrible spiders. Now, as for the Great Mage....”

Vanus Galerion had mobilized his mages guild against Mannimarco's schemes, not once, but twice! Unfortunately, the second battle against him resulted in Vanus Galerion's death, even though he was successful in taking Mannimarco back to the grave.

It would have been nice to have Vanus Galerion around, Rachel thought. Sure, Kynril and Ren'dar had the undead around them suppressed. With their strength, and with her newly augmented magic shielding them from harm, they were fairly strong themselves. But Vanus Galerion? Someone like that would make their mission easier....

But when she voiced that thought, Kynril laughed and told her, “Then the Great Mage would be undead too! And he would certainly not approve of that! But, to be entirely honest, this dead Nord could never match Mannimarco's _power_ , and even Mannimarco could not match a Nord's potential for _evil_.”

“What makes you think that?” Rachel asked.

“History, my friend. Mannimarco eventually died and his cult crumbled. The legacy of the dragon priests continued to haunt Skyrim for thousands of years. The dragon priests do not even need to awaken for their slaves to rise and languish in this terrible undeath. That, and Nords are utterly barbaric in their bloodshed and conquest.”

“So mer are elegant and gentle in their bloodshed and conquest?”

Kynril grinned at her. “Your Tamrielic _mercy_ is derived from _mer_ , Breton.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am the Dragonborn, therefore I know everything about every word there is. I am also an elf, which makes me right by default.”

“Oh, okay, you're actually joking....” An unnirnly light off in a far corner caught her eye. “Draugr!”

Another horror of Valthume fell to Ren'dar before it even knew he was there.

“The elf is half joking,” Ren'dar said, lowering his bow again. “You have seen him listen to dragons and read the words of the ancient Nords. This one has seen him get lost in ancient writings between guard duty shifts.”

“Also, word roots are best explained somewhere other than a crypt,” Kynril told them. “I don't want to be here all day.”

–

There was no time for Kynril to translate whatever the not-lich Hevnoraak screamed at them, as he rose from his coffin in the great throne room, hovered ominously, and began casting _lightning_ at them.

It probably had something to do with elves, Rachel supposed as she warded each blast away. That was was fahliil meant, right? Of course the dragon priest would be angry. How dare an elf sit in his throne, put his elven butt in Nord butt space? And after wasting all that blood, too! (How it hadn't gone dry and useless in those old bottles, she didn't understand. Maybe the bottles were magic.)

Kynril was a sight in battle as usual – a storm of Altmeri swordplay, with graceful footwork and muscle behind it, but now unhindered by bulky steel. Less need to guard, with her armors and wards around him. Hevnoraak could barely fly out of reach, and he turned the floor into a field of shock magic before him. But it didn't matter. Within a minute of his resurrection, he was properly dead again and broke into dust.

The spirit guardian of Valthume gave its thanks and vanished, leaving them behind in the throne room.

Ren'dar gave away his position with a cheer. But she knew, and so did the others, surely, that the hard part wasn't over yet.

Kynril prodded the iron mask with his sword, then bent down to lift it from the dragon priest's remains.

“Look at you, you evil... mask,” Kynril glared at it. “Your days of being befouled by Nord magics and enthralling the miserable dead are at an end. You will not have the honor of grasping my soul.”

The mask did not reply.

Rachel's heart thumped as Kynril turned to her. It was the moment for the entire reason they had come to Valthume.

The moment where she would fail everybody.

_No, no, don't be so timid. The mask is your prey._

“Thanks, internal daedra.”

_Do not thank me. Eat the prey._

“She speaks to you, then?” Kynril asked, handing the mask to her.

“What, you didn't hear her earlier?”

“Ah. Don't tell anyone else that. You'll get accused of witchcraft before anyone even figures out the Reach part.”

Rachel held the mask up to eye level and stared into the slits. “I have no idea how to begin with this thing.”

“Perhaps the same way you manipulate other magicka? Feel its threads within the iron, as you have healed Ren'dar and me.”

“Take all the time you need,” Ren'dar called. He had perched on the edge of the empty coffin, and was swinging his feet and playing with the string of his bow. “Ren'dar will stand guard while the mage is busy.”

Rachel shrugged and sat down on the floor, still holding the mask. Its stare unnerved her as she reached out and tried to get a sense of its magic.

It was there, twisting through the iron. She could _feel_ it.

And it repelled her.

“Come on, you piece of scrap....”

She tried again.

The magic was there. It was there and it did not want her there, but it was hungry. So hungry. So very....

She gasped and dropped it. “By Sheor!”

The mask just rang against the earthen floor and clattered to a rest, staring up at the rock and timber ceiling.

What magicka did not attempt to drive her off had tugged at her, as if trying to coax her being out of her mortal body through the palms of her hands, past her leather gauntlets, into itself.

“Is it _that_ evil?” Kynril whispered.

“It wants to eat souls. I think it started trying to grab _my_ soul.”

“At least you can tell what it's doing. That's a step in the right direction.”

She picked up the mask again. The magicka was there, just as clear to her as anything more separate and solid. If she could manipulate the magicka inside a person, maybe a magicked object would work just the same.

Its defenses were still there, repelling her prodding and her will.

“I see.... It's protected from my magic... even if it has no problem grabbing onto me. Creepy.”

“Use me.”

Rachel looked up. Kynril had offered his hand. It trembled slightly before her.

“It's just as we predicted,” he went on, voice hardening. “The masks were made to host the will of a dragon priest. But the dragon priests bowed to dragons.”

He'd once been shy, to have his magicka used. But when she placed her hand in his, it was clear. There was a lot of power in there, bright and strong as if the clouds had suddenly parted away from the sun.

She took the mask again in her free hand and set to breaking its shield. And break it did, shattering before the will of a dragon, leaving her free to pick through the rest.

There was so much magicka drawing souls _into_ the mask.

It was almost laughable, how simple the solution was. If souls could be drawn to something and trapped there, if she could pull a soul out of her own body, even briefly, then it had to be possible.

She turned its soul binding enchantment outward.

The effect was instantaneous. The room erupted with a whirlwind of white-blue lights, as the shrieking victims of Hevnoraak's cult burst free.

And then it was over. The souls faded, leaving Rachel quite startled, wondering vaguely if it was truly done, if the mask's enchantment was broken or really reversed, if the souls had merely stopped existing or passed onto that dreadful pocket of Aetherius the Nords called Sovngarde.

Nearby, Ren'dar hissed and removed his hands from his ears. Rachel set the mask down. Then looked at Kynril.

Kynril, who was still staring at her. Who directed his gaze to the mask when he realized she was watching him. Kynril, whose face cracked into a huge smile, then laughter.

But the souls were not done.

“ _Hevnoraak!_ ”

Rachel looked at the mask, then up, as a strange vision unfolded over it. The image of a woman, a Nord it seemed, in full armor made of furs, ornate metal, and strange bony plates.

What she had to say to Hevnoraak, she could not tell. Because her anger poured forth, quickly, in what had to be Dovahzul. After a minute, the vision faded.

Ren'dar leaned forward. “What did it mean, Kynril?”

“I... I think she said that Hevnoraak overstepped his bounds as a dragon priest. That the power of Dov did not exist for Nordic cruelty. And that she, the Dovahkiin, would end him herself, and he would not be worthy of the effort she took to destroy him.”

He reached forward and took the mask in his hands again. The ancient Dragonborn's voice filled the room once more.

“ _Dovahkiin.... Kulii dii rekkiin.... Huzrah fin rot. Ragnvald miraad los nibexaan naal tafiir. Wundun wah Nchuand-Zel. Yah mirbex. Ruuz yoriik wah Ragnvald.”_

Kynril blinked twice, and looked uncertain. “Well. Er. Thank you for the warning, voice?”

The voice did not say more, and Kynril set to work vanishing the mask to the High Aldarch. When it was finally gone, he sat back and sighed.

“Right. This time the... ancient Dragonborn said that Ragnvald has been closed by a thief, and we need to go to... Nchuand-Zel to get the key before we go there.... Oh... stars. Nchuand-Zel? A Nord of her time.... She must mean Markarth.”

“Why Markarth?” Rachel asked, head filling with dread and images of mercenaries and silver.

“Because the key is there, if the voice is right.”

“No, I mean....”

“It was the original name of the city.”

She stared at him. And the confusion in his face cleared before she said, “Okay, but why did it have to be _Markarth_?”

“I hate it too,” Kynril said bitterly. “We have Ondolemar's warning, and I planned to skirt the city. But I don't know how to break into it!”

“That is where you need this one,” Ren'dar said. “He has had thirty years to learn the city, and there are many, many ways to slip in, go unnoticed by even the most vigilant of Nords. That he was caught once was a rare mistake.”

“And how are we to seek the key to Ragnvald?”

“The voice was not clear, but perhaps you have an ally in Markarth? Someone who knows what happens in the city?”

“Of course. Calcelmo! Not that... he would consider me an ally.... But surely a mer of the court....”

“Maybe Ghorza's still there,” Rachel said. “She and Moth would hear things about the city....”

“And then,” Ren'dar's tail swished, “you have many Reachmen, who will certainly not give a friend up to the Stormcloaks or the Silver-Blood Jarl.”

“So we're going to Markarth, getting the key, getting out?”

Kynril stood up. “We might need more help. This is our mission, and Markarth is dangerous, but....”

“Ren'dar knows,” the Khajiit assured them. “It will be a short delay, but yes, he will ask the Shadows.”


	28. The Atronach

At Ondolemar's request, they were followed. They did not know _who_ followed them from the hideaway, but Ondolemar's assurances and Ren'dar's certainty provided some comfort as they pushed westward into the Druadachs.

It was a long march. So much travel, on endless roads, through snow, up hills had thickened her legs and slowed the fatigue that set in. But to skirt the valleys of the Reach, in Sun's Dusk fog and cold was quite the task. Even more so when they had to avoid the roads and watch out for anyone else. Passing Stormcloaks might let them go, or they might not. And Rachel doubted the Forsworn would care where she came form; she'd heard enough to know even other Reachmen were not spared their wrath.

She almost longed for the plains of Whiterun. It was easier to avoid obvious danger there, where abandoned forts, old mines, and the like could be seen from a distance. In the Reach it was very possible to blunder into Forsworn encampments. Or a sabrecat. Or wolves.

Maybe it was luck, or skill, or Stendarr. Or some strange combination of the three. But for the Reach and all its dangers, they went unassaulted on their march.

And then there was the bounty of Y'ffre. Ren'dar felled a wild goat. With a bit of bloody work (how werewolves were supposed to enjoy eating fresh corpses she didn't know), some crushed juniper berries, a little help from a secret bag of moon sugar, and a roaring campfire, they had a small feast.

Ren'dar was more talkative, especially during meals. There were so many things one could do with goat, he explained. So many wonderful ways to spice and cook it. Dumplings, caramelized goat bites, roasted goat glazed in fruit and sugar syrup.

Of course, antelope and mutton were good too. And he ached for a better place to cook. Which, he noted, was something he did not have often, serving the Thalmor for so long. Ondolemar had allowed moon sugar and sometimes found time and space for him to prepare his own meals. But he had not been able to cook often.

And, dark moons, that was not the only simple joy that life in the Thalmor had kept from him.

It quickly occurred to Rachel he'd been holding so much back, even from them. Only the revelation of his past, his true loyalties, had finally made it safe for him to talk, at length, about himself and whatever he desired to speak about.

Kynril appeared to listen with interest, in between bouts of his eyes fogging over with a distant, contemplative stare.

–

“This is it.”

It had to have been a week. But there they were. High in the hills, in a breach in the cliffs, far out of sight of the city's farms. The old dwarven wrought gates into Markarth were unbarred.

“We must move with caution down here,” Ren'dar said, pushing the door open and slipping in. “There may be all manner of terrible things. Dwemer machines. Spiders. Stormcloaks who became wise to the secrets of the city.”

Rachel moved in behind him. There was no need for extra light; the gas fires still burned, in their lamps of dwarven-not-bronze, along walls of grayish white stonework.

Kynril shut the doors. “Our options, Ren'dar?”

“Where do you wish to go?”

Of course, the only option was forward, and so they began to walk. The hall quickly met a descending stairwell.

“Calcelmo. That mer is the only one left in the keep I would trust,” Kynril said. “Though, I suppose Ghorza would not turn us away, considering we have her old apprentice.”

“Ah. Understone Keep. Ren'dar wonders, then, if he remembers where Calcelmo asked him to go, to fight the abominable spider?”

“Ah.... Yes. Calcelmo's excavation project. That wretched place.”

The deep stairwell finally ended in a corridor. Ren'dar held up a paw to stop them, then peered out. The ears of his hood wiggled. “He sees and hears nothing dangerous yet. Good.”

“Are there any other ways into the keep?”

“They involve greater risk; Ren'dar is not so sure of their security. But other halls? They come out in the city. Plenty of abandoned houses to choose from.”

Rachel tightened her grip on her staff as they passed between a pair of towering centurions. “So, how exactly has this place not been found yet?”

“Ren'dar did not say it has never been found. But it would be hard and frightening to venture here.”

“And you used these tunnels to move around the city?”

“When he had to.”

It was eerie, how much the passages beneath Markarth felt like Understone Keep, despite their stillness. They began to encounter branches in the halls. Sometimes Ren'dar would turn, and she tried to imagine what part of the city was above, unaware of their creeping beneath the mountain.

When they had walked for a good half hour, Ren'dar stopped. His tail stiffened and bristled.

There were _noises_ ahead. Metallic, brass on stone noises, echoing as something... or many somethings skittered in their direction.

“Dark moons. Dark moons....”

Kynril drew his sword and hurried forward to defend them.

They were spiders. Not very large, but it didn't matter; Rachel could imagine the kind of wounds they could cause just with their front legs. Their front legs, which were raised and ended in long sharp pincers.

She cast the best armor she could.

Fast and numerous and pointy as they were, the dwarven spiders were delicate. There backs were open, protected by nothing more than a frame of metal. And that was easy to drive a blade into, or to smash with a hilt or a staff or the wall. Their cores shattered or smashed or were else dislodged, the spiders went still.

But the spiders were not the end of it. The fighting had attracted something else – a large round ball that sped through the corridor, uncurling itself only yards away to reveal an automaton that looked like a metal mer on wheels, while Ren'dar spat and swore.

And she imagined him, only months ago, weak in bed with steaks of fur missing in his chest, where Ondolemar had had to heal deep gashes and shattered ribs....

They scattered as the metal mer sped at them. But it was not to be dodged easily; it spun around on the spot and threw out an arm that caught her in the shoulder, and Kynril replied with a Shout that raised dust and knocked the thing back.

She could still move her arm and fingers, at least. Just a few seconds of focus, one spell, and it was like she hadn't been struck. Except for the ache. The ache remained.

“How do we kill this thing?” Rachel called, as the automaton righted itself and began to wheel back.

“He doesn't know!” Ren'dar cried. “He fled the other one!”

She retreated, letting Kynril face it. Ren'dar moved between them, nocking his bow again. The automaton sped forward for another attack.

It lost balance when struck. But blows for the most part glanced off its thick shell. She knew, for Ghorza had told her, that Dwemer metal alloys did not break or bend easily. The little spiders were one thing. But it would take so much force, or so much _heat_ to break through the metal mer's casing.

Their best hope was to aim for the joints. To break off whatever allowed it to move and fight. Kynril seemed to have realized this.

Then again... the machine could not simply be _metal_. Not to have things such as awareness of its surroundings. And there had to be little gaps in the joints, for them to work at all. Perhaps a spell....

She thought quickly. She had no spells for offense. None that worked against machines. Unless....

She raised her staff and shot a blast of lightning at it. The automaton seized for several seconds. And then it turned and rolled in her direction, past Kynril, past Ren'dar, raising its arm for another strike. And panic burned, familiar and feral....

Rachel clenched her shield tightly and threw all her strength into countering it. Her shield connected, and the resistance, the footing of the metal mer was nothing, was petty compared to _her_ power. It crashed into the ceiling and fell, broken, loosing a fountain of sparks.

Something hissed, to the left and above.

And that was bad, she remembered suddenly. That was one of the worst things that could happen in Markarth. And with the heat of the automaton's draining magicka....

She turned and ran, felt herself knocked off her feet as the everything went to Oblivion in a blast of fire and stone.

–

Arms.... Those were good. Fingers accounted for, too.

Legs. Those were there. Toes could still be wiggled.

Body, in one piece.

Rachel sat up, wincing, and finished inventory of her body by mage light; the hall gas lamps had gone out. Thank the gods, nothing worse than cuts and light burns. Things that could be repaired with a spell.

She found her shield and staff nearby. Still whole too.

There were no dwarven machines nearby. None that weren't in pieces.

But... of course! The others!

She hurried back, where a new wall of rubble waited. The ceiling had fallen in. And, against hope, she shouted.

“Ren'dar! Kynril? Kyn! Are you alive?!”

There was the sound of sobbing. But yells answered her.

“We're fine!” Kynril's voice seemed pained. “No need to worry! Nothing we can't patch up! Ren'dar's rattled, but he'll be fine too.”

“Ren'dar is not harmed,” the other called, and snorted back tears. “Listen! You... you must go on. We will find another path!”

If not for the wall between them, that would have seemed like the worst idea. No. She would have to face the maze beneath the city and any other machines lying in wait. Alone.

She could feel herself shake a bit. “And how do I get out of here?”

“Keep walking... in the direction we were going. Then turn to your right as soon as possible. From there, keep walking until you have passed two halls on your left. The third turn left will take you into the northern part of the city. It is a house that nobody lives in. It is the fastest way out.”

“And where should we meet?”

There was a brief pause.

“The Talos shrine,” Kynril said. “Just like old times.”

“Right. I'll see you in Markarth, then.”

Yes. That seemed like a suitable, hopeful farewell. It was tempting to add something more, like a wish for them not to die on the way out, or to ask if they were _sure_ they couldn't just reunite by shifting some of the rubble.

But she turned and walked, guided by her own light. Trying to keep Ren'dar's directions straight in her head. Trying to shake the horrible idea that the others were not all right, and that they were only trying to encourage her somehow. Which wasn't possible, she reminded herself. If it were that bad, the mission would be off.

The first right turn. Then the third left. That was simple enough.

Except... the hallway after the right turn was partly blocked by rubble too.

She moved closer and got a better look.

A _Talos statue_ of all things had fallen into the hall. Its head and shoulders had been smashed off by the impact, and the damned axe fetish had cracked against the floor.

She looked up to see flickering orange lights, and uttered an oath to Malacath. The shrine of Talos itself had caved in.

Rachel looked at the rubble. How much she could trust it, she didn't know. But some of it looked pretty sturdy, and it wasn't as if she knew another way out of the tunnels. With a pounding heart and a lot of effort, she began to climb.

It was safer than it looked. Within seconds she had hauled herself up into the little shrine, or what was left of the room.

She wasn't sure if it was safe to wait for Kynril in there. If the rest of the room didn't collapse, someone was bound to come looking. There had to have been noise.

Rachel pulled up her hood and hurried up the ramp to the city.


	29. Toward the Forge

The scene in Markarth reminded her of the aftermath of Weylin's attack. Nords, Redguards, Bretons gathering in confusion and fright, all asking themselves the same questions about why the ground had been shaking, with the new Stormcloak guard trying to restore order.

Rachel wasn't sure where to go, or where to wait for Kynril. But there was always the forge. Of course she could wait there. Kynril and Ren'dar would get into the city eventually. She would just give it a while and then go back to the shrine to meet them.

Assuming the guard didn't bar the way back when somebody figured out that there was a big hole going into a secret tunnel.

An armored Nord in a green Markarth tabard was just ahead, walking in her direction. No turning back, no running, she told herself. She held her breath and kept moving. He didn't seem to know her, or her face.

Rachel walked down one more steep stairway, turned, and crossed the canal bridge into the forge. And she was instantly relieved to see the tall orc there, her back turned, looking at something in the direction of the mines....

She wondered, for a moment, how to get her old teacher's attention. And then, she wasn't sure how she hadn't thought of it sooner. How would Ghorza react, after her departure with the _Thalmor_ , after months away?

“Um.... Hi. Ghorza.”

And Ghorza started and turned. “By the Hammer.... You're alive?”

And suddenly there were thick arms wrapped around her, pulling her into her apron.

“You little furball! We've been worried about you!” Ghorza released her and stepped back. “Well, don't _you_ look like an elfy little mage now? And you kept your shield! Where have you been? And sit down before someone else recognizes you....”

Rachel collapsed on her butt by the worktables, out of sight of the roads, thankful to be off her feet again.

“I've... been all over Skyrim. Everywhere but Winterhold now.”

“New boss keeping you busy, huh?”

Was it better not to tell Ghorza that her service to the Thalmor was over? Then again, the High Aldarch wasn't done with Kynril. Which meant she wasn't done yet either.

“Yeah.”

“And what are you doing _here_? Don't you know about the Stormcloaks?”

“Didn't have much choice _but_ to come here.”

“Don't tell me you ran off again?”

“No. My friends are expecting to find me here.”

“Friends?” Ghorza paused. “Let me guess.... That talkative elf kid and the Khajiit?”

Rachel nodded.

“Well. I hope they earned that privilege.”

She wasn't sure how to explain to Ghorza that they had. But she tried, recounting what of her travels that she could, while leaving out the details of their mission and the part where they were defying one of the highest authorities of the Aldmeri Dominion. Ghorza seemed satisfied.

“Then what brings you back here? You know it's dangerous, right?”

“Yeah. We know. But we found out that we need something in the city, if Kyn is going to do Dragonborn duty. The key to Ragnvald, an ancient Nord burial site north of here. Do you know anything about that?”

Ghorza leaned against a column and crossed her arms. “Ragnvald? Well. That _is_ familiar. I think I heard the name up at the keep.”

“What, really? Do you remember who mentioned it?”

'”Yep.” Ghorza's brow furrowed. “One of those Stormcloaks, talking to Thongvor....”

“Oh. Oh, by Molag's balls....”

Ghorza snorted. “Yeah. That'll make it difficult, won't it? Are you sure about this, kid?”

“I... I don't have a choice, Ghorza. But I need the Dragonborn to get his ass up here so I can tell him,” Rachel said, looking around, wishing he would find the empty shrine and come to look for her here. But there was too much of a chance he would wait for her instead.

“Should you go meet him?”

“Yeah. I probably should.”

She didn't move. She didn't want to move. It was too good, to sit safe at the forge with her mentor again.

But there was too much risk lingering there, or within a hundred miles of the city.

Rachel stood up and straighted her robe.

“I don't know if I'll be back.”

“And you probably shouldn't come back,” said the Orc. “This city has a long memory, and so do its humans. But you're welcome to return to the forge if you need something. Got it?”

Oh, if only. But the longer she stayed in Markarth, the closer she drew to the end of Kynril's mission, the more unlikely that seemed. “Thanks, Ghorza. For everything. Um.... Pass that on to Moth too?”

“I'll tell him,” Ghorza smiled. “Now get lost, you elfy little Breton.”

There was too much to say and nothing else to say. Rachel walked away from the forge, watery eyes fixed on the path and the rocks and the crags ahead.

–

The shrine was still empty, when she found it again. Still nothing but a drop into the darkness below the city. Talos somewhere below, in pieces, just like he deserved.

But the door opened again behind her, and she heard two sets of footsteps. And... she realized only too late... the sound of ring mail that neither she nor her friends wore anymore.

“By Shor!” The accent was thick, Nordic, just as she expected. “What happened here?”

“You there! Mage! Do you know anything about this!”

“No,” Rachel lied. “Talos was like this when I got here.”

She edged a little closer to the pit and thought. If it came to it, could she jump in, run, lose the guards in the darkness?

“Well what in Oblivion could have done _this_?”

“I don't know. Faulty Dwemer stonework? Something down there that doesn't like Talos?”

“Don't joke. We _still_ don't know where that barracks of Thalmor went.”

“Can't imagine them all hiding down in a place like that.”

The Nords said nothing.

“Too dark and ugly for a bunch of high and mighty, pretty little _elves_ ,” Rachel went on. “So Talos is really stuck down there? That's... it?”

“Of course not! We'll find a new place for him in the city. Somewhere he can be seen by all at last.”

In that many pieces? No, they probably meant to carve a new one. “After all these years? Finally.”

Silence.

“Well, I can't pray in a creepy Dwemer pit. Talos guide you, sirs.” Rachel turned for the door and began to walk. She had barely made it ten paces when the first Nord called to her.

“Hold a minute there, Breton.”

There wasn't much choice, and he closed the distance in just a few strides while demanding to see her face. She wasn't given the dignity of pushing back her own hood.

“What is your name?”

“What? What do you–”

“Name, Breton.”

“I.... It's... it's Aela.”

The guard's hand flashed out, and a searing pain filled the side of her ear. She could not stop herself from recoiling and yelping.

“It's the werewolf girl!”

The guard removed his hand and through her tears, she caught sight of something silver.

_Run! Run! Now!_

But she didn't like her chances of getting out of the shrine, not without more harm, and the guard had her arm in a vice grip.

And Kyn! Where was Kyn?!

“You're had this coming a long time, Forsworn dog.”

And they started to drag her up, out of the shrine.

“I'm not Forsworn!” she cried, hoping somebody would hear. Hoping Kynril or Ren'dar would hear. Them or the mysterious followers that Ondolemar had assigned. Somebody.... Anybody! “I'm not Forsworn! What are you _doing_?”

They turned south, and Rachel caught sight of the mines. The pillory on the docks. Was that her fate? To be left there, her shame on display for the city? To freeze in the night?

But the guards dragged her over the bridge and past the stocks. Into the mouth of the caves. The silver mines.

“Gods!” She tried to dig in her heels. It was no use. “No!”

There were no other guards inside. Most of the furniture had been cleared out. There was no sign of occupation. No weapons, no ore, no waste buckets, no food.... There were cobwebs everywhere, though.

They did not take her things, or force her to change into rags. One of the guards took a key from a table and unlocked an iron bar door. On the other side it was another door, one that was open. And there were no expected sounds of work beyond it.

They shoved her in and shut the door behind, then simply left her.

Rachel hesitated. There were a few choice words. Words she would have liked for the guards to hear. A phrase that might have made even Ghorza wince. But she decided against it, bit them back as she watched them disappear.

Something was beyond the open iron door, in the darkness. She still had her staff. She cast a mage light into the mines.

Spiders. There were great spiders everywhere, their cart-sized blue and white bodies on so many surfaces, legs thick as young tree trunks, pincers twitching threateningly, eyes gleaming in the light.

Rachel shut the jail door, lifted what barrels were left in the gate room, and used them to block the way in.

The size of the door frame would probably keep the big ones out. But there was no telling if any of the little ones lurked in there with them. So, barrels.

Then she tried the door out. It was quite firmly stuck.

Out of ideas, she sat behind one of the untouched crates, out of sight of the door. Hoped the guards would not return and find her uneaten by the spiders. She prayed to Stendarr, to Auri-El, to any Aedra who might heed the pleas of a Breton werewolf.

A werewolf. A werewolf of the Reach. It had been her fate all along to die down here, or worse.

Everything had been for naught. Her plight in the summer. Ondolemar's offer of clemency. Her efforts to stay out of the hands of the Markarth guard.

She should have just accepted jail earlier. At least, back then, the Forsworn had managed to escape both the mines and the city. She could have run with them. Could have fled to whatever hill they did and started a new life.

Despair bubbled and clawed.

“No. I'm not going to turn here. I'm _not_ going to go fight a bunch of spiders.”

The daedra was disappointed. But persistent.

“It's not going to help. And shouldn't you want me to die and go to Hircine?”

A strong 'no'.

“Then what are you suggesting?”


	30. The Glenmoril

Rachel had been determined to wait and not give in to despair. But Kynril and Ren'dar did not arrive looking for her. It had been hours.

She was out of rations and water. Too much longer and she would begin to suffer for it. Something _had_ to be done.

She tried to remember Kynril's magicka, to sense it in the city. But it was a bit too distant and too faint, too close to the keep, and she wondered if it was possible to tell where someone had been months ago.

The daedra prodded her again. And it was clear she wanted to burst free and run.

That did give her an idea. Perhaps it was even what the wolf wanted. She pulled the daedra from her own soul; this time instead of leaping from her body, she materialized outside the jail door. She sat and waited, staring with erect ears and a closed mouth.

“Listen, friend,” Rachel said, leaning back against the wall. “I need you to go for help. Someone who can get us out of here. Kyn, if you can find him? Okay?”

The wolf huffed.

“Please. I'll be okay here, if that's what you're worried about. Just go as fast as you can and come back with help, all right?”

_Do not die, mortal._

So she did still care, in her own way. The daedra turned and dashed for the exit.

–

Spider screams and the sounds of fire. That was what jarred her from her painful sleep. Rachel saw the bars, felt the dirt, and remembered where she was. The flashes of orange light and the obvious battle taking place nearby did nothing to stem her hopelessness. She concealed herself as best she could and waited.

The fighting and fire stopped. A harsh acrid smell wafted in with the smoke. And a rough, hard to place voice – one that struck some strange, ancient-feeling fear into her – echoed through the cavern: “No match at all.”

There were footsteps, metal and heavy against dirt, then wood planks. Then, before she could hide properly, a tall, shadowy figure peered with glowing blue eyes through the bars and over her small, insignificant barrel wall. In the dim light, she could just make out the long, jagged spikes on their pauldrons.

“You're the wolf's mortal?”

Stendarr help me, she thought. I asked her to bring me Kyn, not a kyn!

Rachel nodded slowly.

“As much as I enjoy this display of weakness, your cowering is wasting my time. Come out here if you want to leave this spider nest.”

“All right. Thanks.”

That didn't seem nearly polite enough for a daedra, let alone a dremora. But she did not know how one addressed a dremora, of how appropriate any mortal titles would be.

_Your mortal 'sir' is good enough._

So, the wolf daedra had already returned.

But the dremora didn't seem to care about politeness or titles, as she hauled the barrels out of the way and stepped out through the door.

“Follow.”

Oh, Rachel followed. She followed closely, trying not to look at the spiders, hoping she would not abruptly find herself hewed by the ebony battle axe in her rescuer's hands.

The dremora led her down into the mines, then beyond a third iron bar door into a narrow passageway. Then through yet another door and tunnel. And suddenly the rocks and dirt fell away as they stepped into a Dwemer hall.

This must have been how Ren'dar escaped, she realized. But with more theft and no dremora. The broken remains of Dwemer automatons were scattered through the halls; these would never again be a danger to him.

Stone steps wound up the side of one room and led to a door. The dremora pushed it open with little effort, and she felt cool mountain air on her face again. The city, the hills, the black sky speckled with stars, the red and white moons.... She had never been so glad to see Markarth, or the night.

“Well, thanks.... I'm... uh... really grateful for this, sir.”

“We're not finished.”

There was no arguing with dremora. She found herself led east and back down the street's stairways, until they turned and came to a door in the mountainside. Rachel recognized the place. She had a vague memory of the Hag's Cure, and going there for medicine when badly ill.

The smells, so many kinds of herbs, brought back memories. Memories of foul tastes, a wrinkled old woman, some man she didn't know scolding her for spitting a curative potion out.

Its purpose done, the dremora opened a tear between Nirn and their own realm and vanished, leaving Rachel to walk farther into the shop by herself.

Bothela glanced over from behind the counter, where she'd been inspecting a stock of mushrooms. She looked just as she remembered her.

“I... hope I'm not intruding,” Rachel said. “A dremora brought me here?”

“Thank the gods you're alive,” Bothela sighed. “I sent him when your wolf friend showed up. And where is that kyn? Run along back to Dagon already?” She stood on her toes and peered over the shelf as if hoping to see him descend into the room. “Well, that's a shame. And I was going to make his favorite tea.”

Rachel stared. “You're... not just an alchemist?”

“You really thought a Reachwoman my age was just an alchemist? _Ha_! Aren't you precious....”

“How did you know how to talk to my... uh... wolf friend?”

“There's a lot I know that you children will never really understand. Now, I know you're not eager to go back out there. Why don't you stay a while?”

“I.... Thank you, but I have to find some people.”

“You mean your Khajiit and Falmer? Yeah, the wolf told me. Don't worry, they'll be here soon enough.”

“But... who did you send for them?”

“Snowboots.”

–

Bothela was not just a great alchemist and a strange daedra summoner. She was also a good cook. Rachel revived with a bowl of stewed hare, and as Bothela offered a second helping, the door opened again.

A small black cat with white paws trotted in, with Ren'dar and Kynril close behind. Both of them stared at her as if looking at a ghost. And then there were cries of relief and two sets of arms wrapped around her.

“Here's your friend, safe and whole,” Bothela said to them. “Why don't you sit down? I'll get some more bowls out.”

Kynril collapsed into the other chair at the table, while Ren'dar shivered and sat by the fire.

“We'd started to fear the worst!” Kynril said. “What _happened_ to you?”

“The mines....”

“What?”

“I... uh... did you see the shrine of Talos? Well, I got out of there and waited a bit, but.... Oh, it's a long story. The guards found me and threw me into Cidhna Mine to get eaten by giant spiders.”

The mer looked very ill.

“Turns out I'm a wanted, known werewolf here. But Bothela rescued me. With a _dremora._ ”

“We owe you a great debt,” Kynril said to Bothela. “If there is anything – _anything_ – we can do for you, please tell me.”

Bothela set a bowl of hare down in front of him. “Just don't go spreading an old woman's secrets. Last thing this house needs is to become the Silver-Blood apothecary.”

“We won't tell a soul.”

Rachel pushed a bit of leek around her bowl. “If it's all right, Bothela, can I ask you some things? About us? And the Reach?”

“What do you want to know?”

“You said you could speak to my daedra. She's only talked to me before, from what I know.”

“I could talk to her because she's with you. You two are a special pair, you know. No... you wouldn't know....”

And she went to put a dish of chopped meat on the counter for Snowboots.

Kynril blinked. “It is not my place to pry, but.... If it concerns my friend, please....”

Bothela shrugged. “The Glenmoril Reachfolk are ancient. They have a connection to Lord Hircine and trace their roots back to the Glenmoril Wyrd of High Rock. Which _used_ to include the Reach, mind you.”

Glenmoril. She'd heard that before. Somewhere....

“We're both Glenmoril, if I'm right about you. By the gods, seeing you grown,” Bothela went on. “You're the very image of the Stormfang!”

“The what?” Rachel asked.

“The Stormfang. The last Wyress of Markarth. A priest, in case you're wondering. A unique werewolf with a daedric friend, just like you. She led scores of people away from Markarth when Ulfric Stormcloak arrived. Never saw her again.”

Rachel blinked, and looked back at her stew. Then she thought of something.

“Ren'dar?”

His ears pricked. “Yes?”

“You were in Markarth before I was born. You know about everything that happened in this city. So... do you know when I was...?”

The Khajiit sighed and leaned closer to the fire.

“Ah.... He was waiting for this.... Ren'dar is very sorry. But do you know of the Vigil of Stendarr? Daedra hunters? Persecuters of daedra worshippers...?”

She didn't. She looked to Kynril.

“They, er... formed after the Great Anguish,” Kynril muttered. “The Oblivion Crisis. They think themselves champions of Stendarr. Imperial misconceptions, really.”

“They include the Forsworn Reachmen in their definition of daedra worshippers. One day they returned from battle, with a little Forsworn girl. They gave her a High Rock Breton's name. She was recorded in the census and sent to live with the other Reachmen in the city. That is you.”

The room seemed too quiet.

“You knew. The whole time.”

“Ren'dar is very sorry.”

Her eyes prickled and stung. Was it sadness? Frustration, learning this _now_? “It's... fine, Ren'dar. It's fine.”

And she was too aware that Kynril and Bothela were still there.

“Half the young Reachfolk in this city have no idea where they came from,” Bothela told her. “You're not the first who started sniffling in here. But let me warn you now, don't go getting any ideas about revenge. We lost that battle. We won't retake anything by lashing out in our pain.”

“Never crossed my mind, really.” Rachel wiped her eyes. “I've got other things to do.”

She looked up at Kynril. He gave her a soft smile.

“And that's fine,” Bothela said. “You need to get out of Makarth before they catch you again. Now, as for the rest of us?” she grinned. “We'll be sitting here, biding our time. Waiting for the Nords to get soft and complacent.... Of course this old hag will probably be gone before that happens.”

Rachel finished her stewed hare in silence.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Kynril said. “We'll take our leave soon.”

“Sure you don't want to shelter here for the day? The sun will be up soon and you all look like you haven't slept.”

It might as well have been true. The mines were a hard place to rest and following a dremora out hadn't been good for her nerves or stamina.

“I... accept. For the sake of...,” Kynril failed to hide a yawn, “...my companions....”

–

The day was slow. Kynril ate and paced, occasionally asking Ren'dar to remind him of the best way to break into Calcelmo's quarters. Ren'dar was busy assisting Bothela and mixing medicines and potions, and he eventually lost patience and told the mer to wait for night.

But Bothela took pity on his need to plan and be completely prepared. The mer seemed surprised when asked where they were going next.

“After Ragnvald?” Kynril scratched his jaw. “Another crypt, far to the north, near the coast. Volskygge.”

“Ah. You'll be in the mountains for quite some time. And have you thought of how to pass the Forsworn?”

“Quietly and without being seen...?”

“Your luck won't hold forever. I know some of them guard the ruin you seek. You'll want to throw away discretion in your approach, or you might end up a pincushion.”

“I don't follow. Won't they attack on sight if we look threatening?”

“Maybe. But almost all Forsworn revere Hircine. Oh, they're excited by the tales of Faolan and they think the hagravens are their best hope. But they still respect Storihbeg.”

“Storihbeg?”

“Our werewolf friend.”

Rachel looked up from where she'd been portioning Nirnroot leaves for Ren'dar. “They like werewolves?”

“They _are_ one of five aspects of Hircine,” Bothela explained. “Storihbeg is the Manbeast. To see him is to see your death approach but be unable to flee, or so they say.”

“We're not unfamiliar with such matters,” Kynril said. “We've been doing a lot of that lately.”

Rachel chewed on the inside of her cheek. “So you're saying I should... approach the Forsworn as a werewolf?”

“Well, it can't hurt your chances,” Bothela said. “But if you're not feeling too sure about that, you could always try a white flag.”

“Better to take the werewolf approach, he thinks,” said Ren'dar. “If anything goes wrong, you can just eat them.”

Rachel laughed before she could stop herself.

“Why let the bodies go to waste?” Ren'dar straightened up, and held a bottle of clear fluid up to the light. “Yes.... This looks good.”

“What's that?” Rachel asked him.

“Remember what you used to get to the crypts here? Same thing! But he thinks you will find it less disgusting this time.”


	31. One Night in Markarth

The great mage and scholar Calcelmo shared a tower of Understone Keep with his nephew. Said tower was quite difficult to reach, for it would require scaling the cliffs of Markarth or navigating the forbidden and well-guarded halls of Calcelmo's elaborate Dwemer museum.

Which Kynril no longer had any interest in seeing, of course. Not after Calcelmo's willingness to attack them in Sun's Height. Besides, the Dragonborn had more important things to do. He was, of course, lying.

Kynril's dignity and their safety were spared when Ren'dar instead led them back into the passages of Markarth and up a winding staircase that brought them out in the upper levels of the forbidden halls.

It was with Ren'dar's invisibility potion (now with sugar to cut the bitterness) that they passed the last guards and the dozing Aicantar to step out onto the balcony and make their way across to Calcelmo's residence.

They had agreed before setting out that Kynril would reveal their presence to Calcelmo and handle negotiations. After all, Calcelmo was Altmer, and intruding on an Altmeri mage's home would probably call for several minutes of humiliating Altmeri groveling if they were to gain his sympathies.

The entrance way was sparse. Rachel supposed a wizard would have no use filling the narrow entrance hall with furniture or trinkets or special wizard things. They followed the hall and were faced with exactly one way to advance – to the left. Simpler than expected.

What they did not expect was for Calcelmo to have been out, and to enter the tower behind them only moments after their arrival.

“What in– Thieves?”

A sudden, dangerous charge in the air. Rachel turned to see a tall figure blocking the door, hands alight with a prepared spell.

Ah, yes. He _had_ summoned a frost atronach back in Sun's Height.... But would he risk it in his own tower, or....

“Calcelmo, wait!” Kynril dropped to both knees. Rachel looked at Ren'dar, but he merely stood off to the side and watched. Rachel joined him while Kynril continued to plead. “We're not thieves. We are here because we are in dire need of help. _Your_ help.”

The older mer lowered his hands. But he was still clearly not pleased to see them. “You. I remember you. You were one of Ondolemar's....” He looked at Rachel. “And you. Ghorza's apprentice. To think I'd catch you breaking in here.... And with such a bounty on all your heads! Do you _want_ to be dragged to the headsman?”

As her guts threatened to speed her rations out, Rachel began to wish that they'd simply ignored the ghost of the ancient Dragonborn and found another way into Ragnvald.

“Of course we don't,” Kynril said. “I... I am sure that a mage and scholar of your esteem has no reason to collect....”

“I don't know.... The jarls never did pay me enough....”

“Please! All I ask is your mercy and a few minutes of your time.”

“Oh, Divines' sakes. That was a joke, Thalmor. Now stop this nonsense and explain yourself.”

“You are very kind, and... rightfully suspicious, though we mean no harm. This will be worth your time.”

“Hmph.”

There was the sound of heavy locks sliding into place in the door, and the familiar suggestion that the room had been muffled.

“Come to my study,” Calcelmo sighed. “I'm not going to stand here all night.”

Calcelmo swept past them. They followed him, passing up a flight of stairs and into a room decorated with inactive Dwemer automatons and a number of maps and diagrams. There were books and more rolls of parchment than she had ever seen in a single room. And, of course, there was a comfortable looking chair where the Altmeri mage might sit.

“Well? What do you want?” Calcelmo finally asked.

She, Kynril, and Ren'dar took the floor, where Kynril wasted no time explaining their plight.

“After our... after _my_ disgraceful failure to exterminate Nimhe...”

Calcelmo raised an eyebrow.

“I discovered I am Dragonborn,” Kynril continued. “Due to that and other events, Ondolemar sent us away from Markarth. I've... discovered many things. Among them, I have managed to inadvertently bind my own soul to four dragon priests....”

“A mer, becoming a draugr? Imagine that,” Calcelmo muttered.

“Oh, it's more likely than one would think. I also learned Falmeri Dragon Cultists existed. The ones that didn't go to the Dwemer? Shoved to the bottom of early Nordic society if it can be called that. But. Well. About the masks.”

The wizard stared, as if Kynril had suggested the Dwemer used bronze, or that the circle was superior to right angles in architecture.

“I mean the dragon priests. Well. Their masks are involved. I need to get into Ragnvald. But I've learned that the crypt has been barred and that the way to open it again has been brought into the city. But I _must_ retrieve the key.”

“And you think finding this mask will fix that problem with your soul?”

“It'll help. My friend devised a method to reverse the necromantic magics of the dragon priests. She's already released the souls of Valthume.”

“The Breton?”

Rachel could feel the disbelief in Calcelmo's stare. But she nodded. “Yes, my lord. Loads of–”

“Oh for.... Don't you 'my lord' at me!”

“I... uh... sorry, sir. Loads of ghosts escaped. Then another one told us to come to Markarth to get the key to Ragnvald.” And on inspiration, she continued. “That's why we had to ask your help. You're the _authority_ on everything ancient around here. Ghorza even told me there was talk in the keep about this key. And you're important, so... we hoped you knew something.”

“Don't mistake my position for importance,” Calcelmo sighed. “Skyrim doesn't appreciate its court wizards. And a mer? I'm no more powerful here than I would be in Summerset.”

“So you don't know?” Kynril looked worried. “We apologize then, for wasting your time.”

“I didn't say that. The key to Ragnvald is in the Understone vaults. You're looking for a dragon claw with inlaid moonstone. You can get there through the Jarl's bedchamber.”

“Jarl. As in Thongvor Silver-Blood.”

“Yes. Him. The great idiot should be asleep by now. Do try not to get caught.”

“Yes. Of course. We'll leave you to your business.” Kynril stood up and bowed at the waist. “Thank you.”

“Do I look like a magistrate? Don't do that!”

Kynril turned to leave out the nearest door. Then he seemed to have realized he'd stepped out the wrong way, and poked his head back into the room. But it wasn't directions he asked for.

“Calcelmo? What is this tablet?”

Rachel followed him. There was a large slab of rock standing upright in the gallery of the antechamber, its surface smooth except for some ancient script chiseled into it.

“Oh, that? That's a record of the bargain between the Dwemer and the ancient Falmer.”

Kynril ran his hands over the stone. “This is... Falmeris. Real Falmeris. I don't believe it!”

“Don't tell me you're going to linger here just to read it.”

“I'll be done in five minutes.”

–

An hour and several doses of invisibility draught later, and they crept past the slumbering wolfhounds in the main hall and toward Thongvor's quarters. There, Ren'dar pulled a small bit of steel from a bag and began picking the locks while Kynril kept watch. The work didn't take long. Soon there was a click, and the well-oiled doors were eased open, then closed again.

Thongvor was fast asleep. There was no reason for him not to be. They hurried through the room, and Rachel nearly laughed with relief and amazement. Their boots were _muffled_. The Shadows had seen fit to magic them, make sure they didn't make a sound as they hit the floor. And even if they did, what was going to be heard easily over the roaring waterfall in the back?

Ren'dar turned his head left and right as they passed through the room. Then he turned around to survey it again. There was no door in sight.

Then, he held up a single clawed finger and beckoned. He approached the water, then turned left and edged across the rocky ledge. A solid stone floor appeared. And there was the door Calcelmo had told them to look for, facing the rushing water, set in the rock wall, small for those seen in the keep.

Ren'dar raised a hand for them to stop while he examined the door. Then his hands glowed with a soft, humming light....

“No magical traps. No mundane traps....”

“You use magic?” Rachel whispered. “I thought you were just a great archer and alchemist and a spy and....”

“Ren'dar is an Atronach.” He set about picking the locks. “He does not make his own magicka. But he can do some things, with what he slowly gathers. And if his friends were to heal him, give him magic armor, hit him with lightning.... You understand?”

The door opened.

–

The winding slope cut deeper into the mountain than Rachel ever remembered venturing in the keep. The Nchuand-Zel excavation, that was an exception. The whole place might have been an ancient Dwemer hall, but the parts guarded by Nimhe and her children certainly weren't the keep. Not yet.

She'd expected guards, traps, or even the possibility of more automatons as they descended. But no one, nothing, greeted them.

They came out in a wide, long room. At first it seemed unremarkable; but then she noticed it. Several mannequins with various armors, each as ornate and elaborate as the next. Stuffed bear and mountain troll trophies, posed as if they were still alive and fighting each other. Far too much silver, from bars of it stacked on stone tables, to beautiful weapons gleaming in their racks along the walls. So many ingots of gold.

And then there were the shields. Their was no mistaking their origins; Rachel had seen enough tattooed Reachmen faces to know where every symbol came form. Steel helmets forged to resemble the heads of bears, wolves, foxes, and deer. Weaponry that was typical at a glance, but also unlike anything Imperial or Orsimeri or Nordic that Ghorza had showed her. Rachel read the vellum by the helmets. She'd guessed right; they were trophies from twenty-five years ago.

“Rachel, look at this,” Kynril whispered.

He passed her something cold and smooth. A rectangular white amulet with rounded corners, the image of a man with a wolf's head and tail set in the moonstone. It had been enchanted at some point. And though it was faint, the touch of the magicka was familiar.

“It was next to this. You need to read it yourself.”

Rachel read the card. Then looked at Kynril, and read it again.

“'Taken from the Wolf Witch of Karthspire, who slew fifteen men fleeing Markarth and fell to the Justice of Stendarr three years later.'”

“If Bothela was right, then we know who the rightful owner of this amulet is. You.”

“Anything else from our mothers lying around Skyrim?” Rachel sighed, pushing her hood down to slip the amulet over her head.

Kynril raised an eyebrow.

“Oh. Um. Sorry, Kyn. I shouldn't....”

“You haven't said anything wrong. But there's something else that I've been wondering about. And I don't think it's anything you would be able to answer.”

“About your mother?”

“Yes. But that is a mystery for later. I won't have us caught down here thinking about a such a distant past.”

–

The claw had waited for them on a pedestal. But as soon as Kynril had picked it up, there was a distinct shift in the air. Rachel shivered and clutched her staff, eyes darting from the exit to Ren'dar and Kynril.

“Oh, Lorkhan's taint,” Kynril swore, stuffing the moonstone dragon claw into his bag. “We've been discovered.”

They were almost out of Ren'dar's invisibility draught, but it was enough. They took it and hurried up the slope. Nobody met them in the tunnel, but they heard voices as they slipped out the door and back into the jarl's quarters.

“We know you're back there!”

The Nord was barely audible over the waterfall. Oh, they should have saved that potion.

“Get back,” Kynril whispered, waving for Rachel and Ren'dar to hide behind the thick stone pillar. “And cover your ears.”

“Come out of there, elf! Or we'll drag you out!”

Ren'dar gritted his teeth and squashed his palms over the socks on his hood, while Rachel shoved her fingers in her ears....

“ **BEX _VEY DWIIROK!_ ”**

There was a loud crack as something ruptured. Something by the waterfall....

“What is he–”

“ **YOL _TOOR SHUL!”_**

The wall and ceiling around the pipe exploded, and the river burst through. Rachel threw her arms over her head, but the fire and rocks soared past her and Ren'dar and Kynril or else cracked against the pillar. The guard were bombarded.

Now, however, they were trapped between rising water and rock. Ren'dar acted quickly. He sprung up over the low wall and then turned to hoist Rachel up while Kynril pushed. Kynril scrambled over next.

Jarl Thongvor Silver-Blood was up, and as expected, armored from skull to feet in thick fur and steel. He'd taken up a silver sword and a position between the waterfall and their way out.

“ **FUS _RO DAH!”_**

Kynril had not given him a second's warning or time to speak. Thongvor Silver-Blood was blown off his feet and smashed against the far wall.

There was no time to stop and see the outcome. The guard that had recovered from the explosion were behind them, and those outside the jarl's quarters had rallied at the noise.

A gout of fire and screaming. Rachel was caught off guard – _Ren'dar_ had done it, outstretched his hands and set everyone in a blue or green tabard ablaze. She tried to ignore the burning and cries of anguish as they fled.

They found only scattered attackers on the way out. Guards who had heard the commotion and begun to ascend into the hall under the mountain.

Markarth had erupted in panic again. She wasn't sure what happened, or how it could have happened, but great hairy frostbite spiders had swarmed, crawling to the top and side of every building, charging down the narrow streets. And the longer they ran, the more obvious it became that the canals were flooding. They were forced to turn back once, twice, three times to avoid the rushing waters. The guards were too busy dealing with the new spider problem to give chase.

The exit came into view.

“ **FUS _RO DAH!”_**

The gate of Markarth was blasted off its hinges. With no one daring to follow them and the clouds covering the moons, they escaped into the night.


	32. The Steed

They slept well into the morning, for three fugitives who'd just escaped their hunters. It was not until a boot nudged her awake, and she found herself staring up at the pale blue eyes and blonde hair of a Nord, that Rachel frantically attempted to rise... and instead pinched Ren'dar's tail. He awoke with a muffled yowl and stiff fur.

“Calm down, there!” The Nord stepped closer. Not very reassuring. “I'm a friend.”

And Rachel noticed that she was dressed in the same leather and linen garb as the Shadows. So she nodded shyly and chanced a look around.

Kynril was already awake, sitting on a rock and eating breakfast, speaking to a similarly armored Redguard with long, tied-back hair, and... Ondolemar?

Her stomach growled for food, and her mind buzzed with curiosity. Once Rachel had apologized to Ren'dar and tried to heal his bruised tail, the Nord led them to the others.

“Yes. Tavia and Agna followed you to Markarth,” Ondolemar said to Kynril. “Redguards and Nords are a common sight in the city, as citizens and travellers. They managed to go completely unnoticed. And... well.... Who am I to sit idly while you three run into the jaws of danger?”

Rachel took a closer look at the other Shadows. Tavia's hair was not only long, but intricately braided. Her cheek and jaw had small, jagged scars, and her brown eyes looked a little tired. She was probably around Agna's age.... Agna was a little more wrinkled, and seemed just as weary and a little smaller.

“I'd prefer not to bring more people into this mess.” Kynril looked from Agna to Tavia. “But... thank you. Do you have news of Markarth?”

“Oh, yes. You caused a stir,” Tavia said. “Understone Keep is flooded. Some of the guards died of their wounds, but Jarl Thongvor lives. That's probably for the best. They're not going to send too many men out to avenge a handful of guards.”

“We still don't know about the spiders,” said the Nord. “But in Markarth? That was bound to happen sooner or later.”

The sooner they got away from angry Stormcloaks and spiders, the better. And so they quickly resumed their march, northward through the hills of the Reach.

The further they walked, the more days passed, the more ice and snow they began to find. They would wake in the mornings to mountain slopes and rocks slippery and more dangerous, with little thaw before noon.

At least the journey's length and the fact that the others travelled closer allowed for more conversation.

Tavia and Agna were a pair, it seemed, in life and in their work. They hadn't quite been grown when the Great War began. Officially, the fighting had never entered Skyrim. But the people of Falkreath knew better.

And that was all they would say of it.

“And is Runil well?” Ondolemar asked them.

“The man's getting nervous,” Tavia said. “He asked us to go find his old diary. What I don't get is what an elf like him was even doing with a bunch of necromancers.”

“Runil? Necromancers?” Anga repeated.

Rachel caught a glimpse of Ren'dar's face. He was smiling.

“Arkay's work, I suppose?” Agna went on. “Someone's got to stop people from making an army out of all the 'Kreath's dead, with the jarls all bein' idiots....”

“Has Falkreath ever considered cremating their dead?” Kynril asked Agna. “It's hard to make a pile of ashes do one's bidding.”

“Yeah, but that's the thing,” Rachel said, mind wandering back to so many draugr.... “The dragon priests needed something to work with and Nord funeral customs didn't come out of nowhere either.”

“Cremation's for enemy dead,” Agna said. “You need to get rid of the bodies quick or you get diseases.”

“And Arkay watches over the rest,” Tavia added, “to keep their bodies and souls at peace and out of the foul hands of necromancers.”

“It's a wonder the Nords of Skyrim weren't plagued by necromancers in their early days,” Kynril said. “With no known gods to protect their graves and the Nords later resisting all concepts Alessian, like Arkay....”

Ah, there was that term. Alessian. She remembered Ondolemar's warning – that if asked, Kynril would speak for hours. She decided to save it for a better time.

Agna shrugged. “I imagine we just armed ourselves and whacked our ancestors back to Sovngarde if they woke up.”

Kynril opened his mouth, then closed it. “Well, that _has_ been effective. For short-term purposes.”

“Did your father ever warn you of Tanzelwil?” Ondolemar asked him.

“Oh yes. Yes, he did....”

“Then you should remember the dead have no need of their own bodies when they want to cause trouble. Altmeri ghosts are more than mere nuisance. Still, they are a bit more... sanitary....”

–

Ren'dar peeked his head over the icy rocks. “As we suspected. Many Stormcloaks, guarding the barrows.”

Days of travel had brought them close to Ragnvald. To a small, secluded point behind walls of dirt and rock and mountain scrub. And for this? To be kept out by the enemy? Rachel held her staff closer and wondered what magics would help them pass such a number, if any.

“A trifling matter,” Ondolemar said, flexing his wrists. “We'll be in there before they know what happened.”

“You're coming in with us?” Kynril whispered.

“Not us,” Tavia said. “This is where Agna and I leave you.”

“Well, I would be loathe to ask others to venture into this place.”

“We'll stay here until we're sure you're inside. Then we're getting out of here.”

“May the wind be at your backs.” Kynril looked up at his old commander. “Ondolemar, are you... sure you want to do this?”

“I'm certain. Now, come. There will be no need for weapons.”

And Ondolemar strode out of the safety of their shelter. Rachel followed quickly, between Kynril and Ren'dar, whose ears drooped as his tail swished. Soon their boots fell silently on the cracked stone floor (but still somehow crunched dried plant stalks).

The Stormcloaks noticed immediately. But, and there was the lightest hint of magicka in the air, they relaxed as suddenly as they had prepared their weapons.

“Peace, Sons of Skyrim,” Ondolemar said, as they moved into their ranks. “We've no quarrel with you.”

Rachel caught a glimpse of their eyes, where one of the Stormcloaks' helms did not cover his face. His eyes were glazed over. Not quite as if drunk, but as if he was still in the glow of waking up from a very pleasant sleep. A very powerful illusion, then?

“We merely seek to help your honored dead return to their well-earned place in Sovngarde.”

They drew closer to the vestibule, up the steps and through the clawed archways. None of the soldiers followed them, or bothered to watch for long. Those they passed by went back to their patrols, or their mugs. Rachel didn't dare to ask what would happen when the illusion broke and the Stormcloaks realized they'd been passed by their group. with its two elves and obvious intent for whatever they were guarding.

But they arrived safely in the shade of the entranceway, and Kynril was able to locate the locks. The moonstone claw was a perfect fit, and as he turned it in the lock, the doors to Ragnvald shook and opened. They entered the tomb.

“I suggest we move quickly,” Ondolemar said, while Kynril shut the doors behind them. “Lest someone come running and check the entrance. Illusory magics wane in effectiveness if the target is subjected to them too frequently in such a short time.”

But he stopped, eyes on a draugr lying still on a table.

“Oh, that one is dead,” Kynril told him. “Well, of course it's dead. But some of them are... completely dead. It lacks the fragile regrown portion of its soul, that it would offer up to its priest....”

“And you can tell that it is currently dead just by looking at it?”

“You develop an eye for this.”

They passed the very dead draugr and descended the winding stairs into the crypts.

“In case such a question has occurred to you,” Ondolemar said, “I save illusions for enemies. None of you have ever fallen under a spell of calm... or fear.”

“Nice to know your threat needs no help,” Kynril muttered.

“Years of practice.”

–

With Ondolemar's assistance, there was nothing to fear from the dead of Ragnvald. There were many paths. Skulls to collect, to reach the dragon priest. As Ondolemar led them through the dungeon, undead challengers turned to ash before they could reach them, spilled oil was burned away, and larger traps that relied on impact or blade were simply knocked from their mechanisms or incinerated. The tedium of creeping through a deadly maze became the tedium of a maze with several dozens of magical fiery explosions.

Luckily, his abilities extended to the last chamber, where the dragon priest rose dramatically from his coffin, scattering a cloud of dust.

“That's him?” Ondolemar asked.

“Yes. That is the priest of Ragnvald,” Kynril said.

And before Kynril could draw his sword, the priest met the same end as his thralls. His glass mask fell heavily to the floor and rang against the stone before coming to rest.

Rachel stared.

“I... I'm starting to wish you abandoned your post months ago,” Kynril whispered. “Gods! You can _do that_?”

“Fire is effective, but a crude means,” Ondolemar said. “I believe you have to do something with that mask?”

“Yeah.” Rachel cracked her fingers. “Come on, Kyn. Let's smash a dragon priest ward.”

There was no hesitation or struggle this time. The mask's enchantment turned, and just as before, the chamber filled with the escaping souls of the dead.

Just as before, the image of the ancient Dragonborn appeared before them, speaking to a ghostly figure. Kynril's face tensed as the conversation went on. And Rachel could have sworn she caught a familiar word, before their view of the past faded.

Kynril quietly sent the mask on its way to the High Aldarch.


	33. Before the Storm

Kynril explained what he'd heard when they got out of there.

Ragnvald's priest had been another Nord, one named Otar. And though it was unlikely that Otar had _truly_ been a great and benevolent figure to the Snow Elves, he and the ancient Dragonborn had cooperated to move several of the elves west, across the mountains, toward the kingdoms of northern Tamriel's Aldmer and Orsimer. With a share of her power, Otar would protect their retreat. It had only been a matter of time before the other Nord kings, already hurling accusations of madness and cruelty to the Nords, decided to strike.

And they certainly had acted, as evidenced by the skull keys they'd found in their walk.

But there was something he had left out again, and Rachel was sure of that. The mer had never been the best liar. And if Ondolemar and Ren'dar could tell, they were kind enough not to say anything.

Volskygge was days and days away.

The direction, the doom hanging in the air, would have reminded her strongly of the journey from the Whiterun-Reach crossroads to the Thalmor Embassy... if it had just been a little warmer.

But there was only so much distance that the mountains could spare from the Sea of Ghosts. And the closer they moved, the more the air cooled, the more cold and snow they met. She pulled her bear skin cloak closer around her.

It wasn't long before they were trudging through snow up to her knees, and she and Ren'dar started to struggle. It was, of course, annoying but less of a hindrance to Ondolemar, and even less so to Kynril who didn't meet him in height but moved through as if it was nothing. And though it clearly embarrassed him, Kynril had to be reminded to take pity on his non-Snow Elven companions and stop walking so fast.

And the snow only got worse, once they'd crossed the river. At least the sparse plants gave way to pines, as the slopes began to gentle.

“It's almost like you _want_ to get to the last two masks,” Rachel panted one day, jogging to catch up with him.

Kynril slowed while she caught her breath, and the other two came up behind them.

“I can name a hundred things I would rather do than that,” Kynril sighed. “Like have a good steamed mudcrab. Or sleep for a week. Or get us out of this cold.”

And then he abruptly took off walking again. “Or spend my entire day loading crates onto ships again. Or fight off an angry Maormer with nothing but a spoon and a thin board. Or accidentally spill ale on the High King of Alinor. Or....”

There was seemingly no end to the unpleasant things he would have rather done than finish their quest. But his grumbling was interrupted by a handful of figures in the snow ahead. Rachel squinted against the reflecting light.

“Crude iron and fur armor with... deer and sabrecat bones if I'm not mistaken,” Ondolemar said first. “Have any of you ever faced Forsworn?”

He hadn't been there, in Bothela's home, when she'd offered an idea for just this situation.

“We're hoping to avoid battle,” Kynril said. “So please do not incinerate anyone unless you must.”

“And what were you going to do? Surrender?”

“Not exactly.”

“Are you sure they're Reachmen?” Rachel asked them.

“Undoubtedly. Nords and Orcs have drastically fluffier winter dress,” said Ondolemar.

“Okay. Um.... How should I even do this?”

“Transform and scare them off?” Kynril suggested.

“Yeah but what if they don't get scared and... they have a volley waiting for us or something?”

“Considering we haven't felt a hail of arrows yet,” Ondolemar pointed out, “I think they might be open to negotiation. But one party would have to approach the other for that.”

Ren'dar spoke up. “Would approaching them really fast as a big, hairy, pointy beast help?”

“I assume you're talking about our werewolf.”

“No, silly shave-arse, he is talking about himself. _Of course he is talking about the werewolf!_ ”

“I think they're conversing over there,” Kynril said. “What do you want to bet they're asking themselves all the same questions?”

“Let's hope they don't have werewolves.”

“Oh for Malacath's....” Rachel could not think of an appropriate lewd curse this time. She pushed her hood back, exposing her head to the blowing cold, and found the cord of the Stormfang's amulet. She pulled it up and let the moonstone fall against her cloak, visible to all, and began to walk.

Ondolemar was immediately concerned. “Is this wise?”

“Nope.”

And instead of arguing, the others followed her as she made her way slowly, cautiously, up the hill to meet the Forsworn.

There were more than two, Rachel realized as they drew closer. More than two, with their hands on the hilt of damaged steel swords or gripping pine bows. But it wouldn't look good to turn and run.

“We're friends,” Rachel tried, when she was in a decent speaking range.

Angry gold eyes gleamed beneath a sabrecat skull helm. “We've no friends among outsi.... Where did you get that necklace?”

Rachel looked down. “This? The Nords stole it from... from my mother... when I was small. I stole it back, from the vaults of Markarth. And... well, they helped.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder.

Another voice, higher, behind a deer face. “Hey! Those elves are Thalmor!”

“Not anymore they're not. And they helped me survive the Nords to escape from Markarth, so you can trust them.”

“Yeah, we're sure,” said the first Reachman. “You claim you're the Stormfang's daughter? Then you better prove it or give us a better excuse for trespassing here....”

She supposed that meant shifting into a great beast, just like Bothela had suggested. “All right, then. I don't do this a lot, but... if you're sure?”

The daedra answered, eager. This time, its help came painlessly. She towered above the entire group, a mass of muscle, teeth, and thick fur.

The Reachmen stared. “Right. Well. That's.... You and your friends may pass, Stormfang. Where... exactly are you headed?”

“Volskygge,” Kynril told them. “We're here to clear out the ancient Nordic evil that waits there.”

“Uh, buddy, you don't want to go there,” said the first Reachman. “We let some bandits wander in weeks ago. Never came out. Which was sort of the whole point.”

“We'll keep that in mind.”

“And theoretically, you could just go right up the mountainside inside of entering through the bottom. Our matriarch's pretty sure there's an ancient Nordic evil right outside the upper exit, by that curved wall.”

Kynril's face brightened, and Rachel felt her tail swish at the idea of bypassing yet another horrible hole in the ground.

“But... if someone went through the whole temple and killed all the undead and disarmed the traps for us, we'd be indebted.”

“ **Won't all the dead die anyway when we free the souls up there?”** Rachel asked. Then she realized everyone was staring, and she covered her muzzle with a large paw. **“Uh. Never talked like this before. Well. This is new.”**

–

The promise to end the dragon priest was enough for the Forsworn. The two who had greeted them led them around the mountainside, away from the entrance to the barrows, then pointed them toward a winding trial leading into the thick pines.

And after an hour's hike, this brought them to the upper balcony of Volskygge, where iron doors, a weathered coffin, and the Dovahzul wall awaited.

The dragon priest did not emerge from his rest. They tried to force the lid off his coffin, but it was stubborn and magicked shut, and even attempting to breach it with Kynril's dragon will did nothing.

“I'm starting to think it's inside, or we've been played,” Kynril said, crossing his arms.

“Could that wall have a clue?” Rachel asked him.

“I doubt that.... Most of these writings have no historical significance. They're all Nords mourning dead wolves, or war horses, or lovers.”

“It might help,” Ren'dar said. “Remember Bleak Falls? The draugr did not attack until you tried to read the wall next to its grave.”

“That's... true! Thank you, Ren'dar....” Kynril approached the wall and turned his head to scan it. “All right. Whose epitaph is this...? 'Noble Nord... remember these words of the Hoar Father.... Oblivion hath no fury like a shield maiden scorned.'” He frowned. “Wait. _Really?_ Of _all_ the things to–”

Thick rock cracked behind them. Just as predicted, the Dragon Priest of Volskygge rose from his tomb.

Ondolemar responded immediately, with the same storm of fire that had ended Otar. But _this_ priest repelled it, and the flames swirled harmlessly around his body before disappearing into the frozen air. But he could not easily turn away arrows or a blade.

It was done in only a moment. Kynril's sword pierced straight through the middle, ripped viciously out the side. Their foe scattered to ash and dust, just as every dragon priest before him.

Once again, Kynril gave the mask to Rachel and offered a hand. Once again, they destroyed what little guarded the mask from outside magics. And the souls of Volskygge escaped.

The image of the ancient Dragonborn returned, in her fur, metal, and bone. But it was no priest she faced. Not in this vision. Instead, she spoke to a _mer_ , one dressed in plain tunic and trousers, his hair cut short _._ And the Dragonborn did not speak in Dovahzul, but an elven tongue.

When the vision ended, Rachel caught Kynril and Ondolemar staring at each other in open shock. Kynril shook his head, eyes pleading, and Ondolemar shrugged.

Kynril busied himself vanishing the seventh mask.

–

They found their way back down the mountain and to the road. The road that Ondolemar immediately wished to depart from, for it was simply not safe to be on the road in the Thalmor patrolled lands of Haafingar. It was by traveling slowly, carefully, making their shelter in caves or overhangs off the roads, that they passed south and east.

At times, they split up into pairs to scout and find resources, and there was one occasion where Ren'dar and Ondolemar stepped out for an entire night for Summerset Shadows business, for Ondolemar had a contact nearby. But they eventually returned to the town of Dragon Bridge.

Dragon Bridge, where they encountered a new problem.

Neither Haafingar nor Imperial banners flew from its posts. Instead, flags of gold and white, bearing an eagle crest, fluttered in the northern wind. And while red-clad Haafingar guards walked the streets, so did Thalmor. Black-robed mer on horseback, footsoldiers armored in moonstone.

Ondolemar vanished, and Rachel knew better than to ask where he'd gone.

“Well, shall we get a room?” Kynril asked. She looked up at him. His face had fallen into a strange weariness. “Yes, I think we could all use that and food.”

And without another word, he strolled out into the open, walking with purpose for the door of the inn. Rachel followed, feeling the sharp eyes of so many guards on them.

Ren'dar, however, stopped at the door. “This one wishes to go and feel the night air on his fur. He join you tomorrow, across the bridge, yes? Sleep well.”

With that, Ren'dar turned and left.

“Well, if that suits him,” Kynril gave a tired grin. “More room for us, hm?”

Thankfully there were no Thalmor inside the inn itself. It was a fair contrast to last time, when the Thalmor who had 'escorted' her and Ren'dar into Dragon Bridge had brought them in for the night, only to march them longer the day after.

Perhaps, when Thalmor did not have prisoners, they did not stoop to indignities such as Nordic accommodations. The crackle of the fire and the smells of ale and roasted meats and herbs were welcome, though. The fears of the mer waiting outside began to ebb and fade away.

“A room, please,” Kynril said to the Nord behind the bar counter. “And... what are the choices for a meal tonight?”

“Well, we've got some roast goat,” the innkeeper said, as if surprised he'd asked. “Or, if you prefer, we've got some mudcrab and a pot of stewed clam and potatoes.”

“How much for the mudcrab and the stew?”

“That, and your room? Twenty septims.”

Rachel watched him fidget and count out the coins.

“I'm not going to ask _what_ happened in Dragon Bridge. That much is obvious,” Kynril said. “But... when? Why?”

The innkeeper's eyes swept the room. “You mean the Aldmeri Dominion? They've been here a few weeks. They say Skyrim's gone too far breaking the White-Gold Concordat. And the Empire's got no choice but to allow it. All of Haafingar belongs to them now. They say the rest of Skyrim does, too.”

Rachel thought she should have felt _something_ at the news. The innkeeper looked distressed. The Nords in the inn, angry or somber.

But what did the Dominion taking Skyrim mean to her? Skyrim was no place for her to begin with.

There was, she realized with a strange twinge of horror, satisfaction. Let the Nords _know_ the insecurity, the fear of being considered an unlawful barbarian in their own home, instead of strutting about a country they never truly lost control over, causing havoc at even the falsest _hint_ of anything even the slightest bit elven.

Which was, of course, unfair to everyone else living in Skyrim. To those the Nords would strike at in rage and panic, as the Dominion closed in. To those who would surely feel the weight of the Dominion's presence, regardless of who they were or where they came from.

She, too, would feel the power of the Dominion. She knew that in her mind, in her soul, and wherever her daedra waited.

She knew that as she and Kynril ate, as they tried to distract themselves with lighthearted talk, as they settled down to sleep for the night.

Only one mask remained.

One mask.

And then the High Aldarch would have no use for Kynril.

And then the Thalmor would have no more use for her.

And if everything they had learned was true, if Ondolemar was right about Elenwen and the High Aldarch's lack of mercy, there would be no hope if they were caught.

She hoped Stendarr was listening, that night, as she lay awake and prayed for some means of escape. Surely the Aldmeri god of mercy could get a few eyes to look away, or inspire compassion in the hearts of any Thalmor who might discover them.

Or perhaps Mara would be sympathetic? Surely Mara would not let a few souls bonded in friendship and love be separated so soon, so tragically. Even if that happened. A lot.

She tried Trinimac next. They had protected each other so many times. Was it all right, to ask the god of defense to shield them in whatever came next?

Rachel wasn't sure how Syrabane or Magnus could help. But if they were lucky, if the gods of compassion and protection favored them, perhaps they could make the rest of their lives more worth Xarxes' time.

She wasn't sure what she felt, when she turned to Y'ffre. But she was very aware of the mountains around them, the gorge and the Karth river, the pine woods of the north, and the sea. And it was quite late, wasn't it? Kynril's breath tickled the top of her head.

In her mind, she did not approach Auri-El, as much as hope that he noticed her.

But soon, praying seemed pointless. There was no more to ask for. She lay awake, numb, unable to care about the warm arm wrapped around her or what the hour was. And it was too soon when she felt Kynril stir, and peeled her tired eyes open.


	34. The Labyrinth

Ren'dar met them south of Dragon Bridge that morning, as he had promised. But, and it was only another worry, Ondolemar had left Ren'dar behind with the message that he was _not_ abandoning them, but that he had to leave them behind for very important and secret reasons. Probably reasons involving the sudden invasion of the Aldmeri Dominion, she supposed. Which was a shame; she was going to miss his ability to reduce undead threats to a foul-smelling pile of dust.

But south they marched, through wind and thin snow. What had fallen on the road had been tramped down by hoof, paw, and boot. But the winds had smoothed much of it over, leaving the road somewhat visible, if covered in places by packed down ice.

They turned east before they got anywhere near that one place. The spot where they'd been ambushed by Falmer, so many months ago. The campsite of the long-dead Stormcloaks, who Rachel imagined would have murdered them instead if the Thalmor hadn't arrived.

Hjaalmarch was even icier than she'd imagined. She'd heard, of course, that the land was mostly damp, salty swamp, where waters flowing north from the plains and Whiterun mountains met the Sea of Ghosts. But with the arrival of Evening Star, the ground and much of the swamp had frozen, leaving a land of white broken up only by ancient pines and, rarely, thawed waters.

And animals, of course. Rachel had not missed the spiders. And neither did Ren'dar's aim. Thank gods that remained unchanged.

The longer they passed through Hjaalmarch, the more she expected to see Stormcloaks, or disorganized rebellion, or some kind of resistance against the Dominion. But there was none.

The most life they saw, aside from a spider or a lone elk or wolf, was a lonely wolfhound with a pack of large gray and brown pups, paws and ears still too large for their bodies. They sheltered in a damaged shack somewhere off the road, and neither Rachel nor the others were confident that any person still lived there.

At last, they arrived in Morthal. And if it had not been for the smell of burning pine and the clouds of smoke over every chimney, she would have guessed that the town had been abandoned.

–

There was no point in lingering in the town, though Kynril overslept and was hesitant to leave the shelter of the Moorside Inn. He shivered visibly and struggled to fasten every buckle on his armor before they headed out.

“The plan is simple,” Kynril said, as they trudged out of the town. “We find the last mask. We do the same thing we've done with the other masks. Then we cut south through Whiterun and into Falkreath. Perhaps by Morning Star we'll be safely in Bruma.”

“What's Bruma like?” Rachel asked.

“Well.... I don't know,” Kynril admitted. “Some say it's like Skyrim. Of course, they also say Bruma's Nords disagree and call the city too Imperial for their liking. But... it would be a bit cold, like this. It's in the Jerall Mountains, after all.”

But when the road turned south, and they found the ancient steps winding up into the mountains, between the remnants of small, dome-shaped Nordic dwellings, the prospect of their task began to push hope away.

And when they reached the top, and saw the old city and all its arches, walls, and stone buildings sprawling out before them, they found its roads nearly clear of snow and ice. Faint voices carried on the air, and tall guards clad in gold and red or black patrolled the ruins.

The Thalmor had found the Labyrinthian.

“Well,” Kynril sighed. “This... this does change things.”

In seconds, they were noticed. Kynril took a deep breath and straightened up, squaring his shoulders as they were confronted with a robed Thalmor flanked by two guards.

“This area is off limits! Turn and go back the way you came, of suffer immediate consequences.”

“I am Thalmor,” Kynril told him. “I'm here on the orders of the High Aldarch of Alinor.”

The justiciar scrutinized them. “And you arrive looking like common thieves?”

“My work required discretion. Even the northern rabble are not so ignorant they fail to notice a well-armored mer in their midst.”

“Then you've played your part well, but that ends here. Inquisitor Ancano is expecting your arrival. The guards will escort the others to a more suitable location.”

Kynril set his jaw. “They do not leave my side.”

Rachel shifted, nervous. The justiciar and his guardsmer did not look satisfied with his answer. But they turned and led them further into the ruins, without any attempts to separate them.

Inside one of the larger domed dwellings, another Thalmor agent in more ornate robes stood over a table, inspecting some sort of map. He looked up, and gold eyes narrowed with disdain.

“The Dragonborn has arrived,” announced their escort. Then he and his guardsmer left them there.

Kynril gave a small bow.

Ancano did not acknowledge it. “I'm sure you know why you're here.”

“His Eminence the High Aldarch has need of an ancient power that lies within this city. I'm here to retrieve it.”

“Good. Then I am not mistaken.” Ancano straightened up. “However, there remains a problem. The ruins are sealed against us.”

“Yes, I recall that,” Kynril said. “I purposefully avoided this place and began my work elsewhere.”

“We've come to learn that the ruins were not closed by extraordinary means, but the interference of one mer.”

“And... where can I find this mer? Perhaps I can reason with them?”

“He is already here. We are holding Savos Aren, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold as our prisoner. Several of his colleagues and students chose to interfere and have been detained as well.”

Kynril shifted. “Are they dangerous? Or are they uncooperative?”

“That is irrelevant. Any interruption poses a threat to our work. And I will not stand for frightened mages running down the mountains and rousing the Stormcloaks.”

“Of course. They'll have to remain for now. Then are we releasing them when we're done here?”

“Oh, yes.” Ancano's face cracked into a cold smile. “The entire College of Winterhold will be free to return to their ancestors as soon as our business is concluded.”

–

Kynril paced the confines of the housing they'd been given. It wasn't much – just a little dwelling cut out of rock – but there was room for bedrolls and belongings, and the Thalmor had brought screens and heavy curtains to cover the doors to keep the wind out. The smoke of their small fire escaped through an opening in the ceiling.

“He intends to have them executed,” Kynril grumbled, shaking. “All of them. This is... needlessly cruel. This isn't even standard procedure!”

Ren'dar watched, where he lounged on his bedroll. “They don't want us to run.”

“Of course they don't!”

Ren'dar flexed his clawed toes, while Rachel sat and... worried. What more was there to do?

“Do not concern yourself with the fate of your prisoners, justiciar,” Ren'dar said. “Leave the fate of your inferiors to your inferiors.”

His meaning was clear, Rachel thought. _Clearly_ he had some plan. One that he attempted to communicate by pointing at himself and winking repeatedly, in case Kynril missed his meaning.

Kynril blinked, then nodded slowly. “Of course. This is no time to be soft.”

And then he relaxed somewhat and flopped down on his own bedroll, still in his leather armor. He looked at a bundle of dark leather and silks and gilt on the floor beside him. A sash with an eagle fastening lay draped on the top.

“Savos Aren should be open to questioning tomorrow. I think I know how to persuade him.”

“Does it involve gazing deeply into his eyes and stroking his elfy ears while he–?”

“Gods' sakes, Ren'dar. I'm conducting an interrogation, not....”

Rachel felt herself blush, and decided to warm her hands by the fire.

“Everyone has something they don't want to lose,” Kynril said. “I... don't expect him to cooperate much, or to trust me. But it's worth bargaining with the lives of his students, I think.”

“A cruel and fruitless offer,” Ren'dar raised one eyebrow. “Such a mer will not believe you. Even if you _were_ to be believed, you could not guarantee their lives.”

Kynril shivered and stuffed his hands under his arms. “Don't think I don't know that....”

“Which is why,” Ren'dar lowered his voice, “you need extra help. When is the execution?”

“I believe they're waiting for the High Aldarch's success. Whenever that is. I must admit I'm... fearful. I haven't seen a sign of him around. He must be planning to arrive soon.”

“What do we do then?” Rachel whispered.

“I'm not sure. Unless we mean to fight, our only hope of survival is running like Hircine is on our heels. And that would mean little to a mer such as him.”

“Which leaves the college mages very alone with the headsmer and every other justiciar on this mountain,” Ren'dar reminded them.

–

Kynril had dressed, partly, in the formal attire of a Thalmor battlemage before. There had not been much else for the mer to wear weeks ago at the Thalmor embassy. Rachel supposed anything too casual would have been unflattering to wear before the High Aldarch, should he show up.

But he hadn't worn the robe, or the gloves, or the sash before. And when he pulled up his new hood, he looked like some vision of an old nightmare. One where the kind guardsmer was instead a ruthless inquisitor. And she had the strangest feeling that she had _seen_ it before, the shadows of the leather falling on his face, the tired look in his eyes, the desire to distance himself from something. But it was odd; Kynril did not have gold eyes, and she had the idea this other mer despised him too.

Ren'dar had chosen to disappear before dawn. And because nobody had since come to report catching a Khajiit sneaking around, she had some hope that he was still hidden, wherever he was.

“You might as well stay here,” Kynril said, adjusting his gloves. They seemed a bit tight around the fingers. “This might not be pleasant.”

But _that_ did not seem safe. “I don't want to be alone here,” she whispered. “I know you're not going to be that awful.”

“Really, Breton?”

Rachel remembered that look. That frustrated stare, pleading not to persist, not to go running into something dangerous.

“As long as we are among Thalmor, the old rules apply,” he whispered. “I am your lord. You cannot question my judgment. And you certainly cannot speak out of turn, or question the will of anyone else here.”

She bit her lip. “Better than being all alone in here.”

Kynril's sigh was a long one. “If following me around a Thalmor controlled ruin is better than that, I'll defer to your anxieties. For both our sakes, be careful....”

“Of course I will... my lord.”

They left their quarters, Kynril walking with strides as if he was every bit the inquisitor his uniform suggested, Rachel with her eyes down, glancing up only to make sure she continued following the right mer. Stendarr help her if she accidentally tailed someone more important.

Kynril found the place quickly. Another old dwelling, this one guarded by two armored mer. The Dunmer inside, seated on the wooden chair by the left wall, must have been Savos Aren. He wore robes of intricate detail; arcane symbols were stitched into the silks and wool. But there was a fatigued look in his face, and despite his status as one of the highest mages in Skyrim, there was no trace of magical presence from him.

“What is it now?” Aren sighed. “Oh. You're a new face. Did the rest of you get bored?”

“You're Savos Aren?” Kynril asked. “The Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold?”

“Nope. You've actually apprehended a snow bear. An easy mistake to make.”

“I'll get to the point, Arch-Mage.... We need your cooperation to access the inside of this Labyrinthian. We know that you've sealed the entrance. This doesn't need to be difficult.”

“So now they're sending children to make empty threats? You're young and weak.”

“And I'm sure you're very mighty, and you could cover this mountain in a blizzard if you wanted to and run the Thalmor's affairs into the ground.” Kynril sat in the chair across from him. “That's why you're Arch-Mage. That's why you're in cold-iron, isn't it?”

Rachel shuffled awkwardly to stand by a wall and pretended not to be present. Savos Aren did not seem intimidated, but intrigued.

“I'm aware of what power lies in this ruin,” Kynril told him. “There's a dangerous dragon priest, with an enchanted mask. I know that. The Thalmor know that. And I think you know something about that, if you want to keep it sealed away.”

“Let me guess. You want to destroy them to protect people?” Aren's voice was edged with sarcasm. “I didn't realize the Thalmor were so benevolent.”

“Oh, yes. Letting us handle your fears would benefit everyone here. Us. The nearby human villages. You. Your college.”

The Arch-Mage said nothing.

“I'm not going to ask what drove you to seal this place,” Kynril said, lowering his voice. “What you're clearly afraid of. I have explored many of these ruins and seen the folly of mortals. There are so many historical accounts of wizards closing entire cities to hide their mistakes. I'm not completely naive. But look at this mess. Was it worth the Thalmor having to come this far? Is it worth the lives of your students and colleagues?”

The Arch-Mage bit his lip and refused to speak.

Kynril lowered his voice to a hiss, one barely audible against the mountain wind. “Listen to me, Arch-Mage. I have been crawling around this gods-forsaken backwater of a country for months. Too many people suffered for _my_ petty fears. And trust me when I say I am the closest thing you have to an ally on this accursed mountain. You obviously want to leave, and I want to see this done without any more bloodshed. Let me _help you._ ”

–

Savos Aren had not been pleased. The way he put it, Kynril was cruel and kind and lacking in subtlety. So the Arch-Mage would not tell Kynril _how_ to unlock the Labyrinthian, but he was more than happy to describe the thrills within.

The ability of the dragon priest to steal the magicka from anyone who entered, for example.

The skeletal evidence that _dragons_ had dwelt deep inside, which was probably a hazard now that dragons were apparently rising from their graves to attack Skyrim.

The ghosts of Falmeri women, threatening all who crossed their path with an icy death.

The ridiculous number of traps, mundane and magical, set by the first Arch-Mage of Skyrim, Shalidor.

“I'm not sure if you're trying to prepare me or frighten me away from this,” Kynril had said.

“What's there to be prepared for?” Aren had asked him. “You're not getting into that crypt.”

Kynril had waited until they were back in what passed for their quarters to complain, and to admire him. Because damn if the old mer wasn't resilient, but what advantage did he think he had?

Ren'dar still wasn't back. And there were _still_ no reports of a Khajiit causing trouble, or escaping. Did the Thalmor even care about his presence?

But it was so like him, to disappear. Ren'dar had done it before, she reminded herself. If he wasn't back yet, he had an elaborate plan. One that he would definitely carry out.

She tried not to think of that night in Markarth.

The Arch-Mage would have to talk eventually, Kynril told her. And if he didn't, he supposed the Thalmor could force their way into the Labyrinthian. It wasn't conventional, by any means, to make a _new_ door, but it might have to work.

–

Rachel followed him out again the next morning, away from the fire and into the cold and the glaring sunlight. But they had not walked far when Kynril let out a faint gasp and stopped. Rachel raised her eyes to see what he was looking at.

Brilliant white robes, edged with gold. And the mer wearing them was walking serenely in their direction, with another familiar Altmer in his wake.

She ignored the urge to run.

“Uh. Protocol?” Rachel whispered.

“I don't know!”

“You're the Altmer here.”

“I wasn't expecting–”

The High Aldarch greeted them casually, as if he did not care for protocol, as if he were speaking to a friend. “Justiciar! I had heard news of your arrival. And I see you're both well and whole, despite your travels. That is admirable.”

“Your praise honors us, Your Eminence,” Kynril said.

Rachel, in her attempt to avoid his gaze, accidentally made eye contact with the mer beside him. And – oh gods – it was Elenwen. Rachel decided to examine the lines of ice in the stone ground instead.

“I'm pleased with your progress. And Ancano tells me that you've decided to personally question the Arch-Mage responsible for locking us out of this temple. The ancestors smile upon your initiative, child.”

“I was just doing my duty.”

“And you have done well. Remarkably well, in fact. I am here to relieve you.”

Oh no. Rachel looked from him, to Kynril, and back. No no no no no no.

“That is... gracious,” Kynril said, nervousness creeping into his tone. “I'm certain that Savos Aren will see reason today. I will make preparations to venture into the temple at once.”

“That will not be necessary, child.”

“Your Eminence...?”

“Your assistance has brought us far. But I will personally retrieve Morokei, while you wait here for my return.”

Without another word, the High Aldarch turned to his right and began to approach a set of stairs leading higher into the city. Kynril hesitated... glanced at Rachel and then Elenwen... and followed him.

“Your Eminence, forgive my poor choice of words. There is... uh... certainly no way a great, high mer such as yourself could lower yourself, but there is no need to... er... lower yourself to this task.”

If the High Aldarch said anything, he and Kynril had walked too far away to hear, and Rachel hated the idea of following them. Elenwen had not moved either, and had not taken her eyes off her.

“Is... is there anything I can do for you, my lady?” Rachel asked.

“Unless you think you can stop your master from making a greater fool of himself, no.”

“Oh. ...May I go?”

“No.”

Rachel looked back up at the stairs, only to see two glass-armored guards leading a very pale Kynril down, by the arms, back toward Elenwen.

Rachel looked at him for directions, but he stared meekly off to his left.

One of the guards spoke. “What are your orders, Canonreeve?”

“Canonreeve?” Rachel repeated. Weren't those extremely important?

Elenwen ignored her. “Standard and magical precautions. I want their hands bound. Cold-iron for both of them. And I think we can spare the silver alloy for the man-beast.”

Rachel flinched as heavy, armor-clad hands grasped her shoulders. “S-Silver? I won't turn. Really. Please....”

“Canonreeve, she isn't that dangerous,” Kynril protested. “If you make her wear silver–”

“Gag the Dragonborn.”

Rachel froze as Elenwen turned to the guards holding her. “Put the cuffs over her sleeves. The silver does not need to touch her skin to be effective.”

 _That_ was unexpectedly kind for an order. But before she could mutter any kind of thanks, she was hauled away with Kynril.

–

Her mind went back to Whiterun. To a day when she had passed out, only to find herself surrounded by concerned Nords, and a priest giving her instructions for recovery. Magicka exhaustion. That was what cold-iron was like. The worst fatigue, the loss of connection to something that had been ever-present and abundant. She could sense it in the air, all around her, a threat from the temple depths and the guards. Her own lack of it made her feel naked. It was a pain to stay awake, and she was only grateful that Elenwen had instructed the guards not to let the cold-iron burn her.

They'd been made to sit and wait outside the entrance to the Labyrinthian. Unable to move, unable to converse, with the guards present and Kynril gagged. It was agonizing, to do nothing but wait for the High Aldarch, to wonder what fate they'd suffer when he finally emerged.

But after ages, a blast shook the temple.

“What was _that_?” Rachel yelped.

“Be silent!”

Rachel mentally cursed her guard and strained to look over her shoulder. There was a bit of smoke in the air, and from the sound of things a number of the guard were running in its direction.

The mayhem went on for another several minutes.

Perhaps it was Ren'dar's doing, her mind suggested. Oh, she hoped it was him. And that he was giving them Oblivion, and not being caught.

But soon, the noise settled down, and the wait carried on being dull.

She could have fallen asleep.

She could have sworn she'd nearly fallen asleep, when a heaviness in the air drew near.

The doors of the Labyrinthian reopened. And the High Aldarch emerged.

He was spotless. His face, his hands, and even his _robes_ were undirtied and unblemished by his hours inside the depths of the temple. His long hair was in place. And his eyes held nothing but calm.

A blue moonstone mask rested in one of his hands.

“Your hand, please, justiciar.”

It certainly wasn't natural, how Kynril's hands moved. His arms were jerked upwards at the shoulders. And it wasn't clear _what_ the High Aldarch did, but the next second Kynril had yelped, and had his fingertip pressed against the mask.


	35. Final Days

The old dwelling they'd been afforded became their jail. They were allowed to go unbound there and Kynril was no longer gagged. But the Thalmor had placed a powerful rune and several types of wards outside the door and windows. There was no leaving for anything. And neither of them were willing to risk breaking out while surrounded by countless armed mer.

At least they were fed. The Thalmor fed prisoners they intended to keep. But she feared – and so did Kynril probably – that it was now a meaningless grace before the end. Kynril had done his work. All that remained was waiting for whatever the High Aldarch prepared for him.

Rachel wondered why they bothered to keep her.

“I haven't been entirely honest with you,” Kynril said that night. It was a moment before he spoke again. “I know. That's not a surprise, is it.”

She looked at him, then back to their little fire. “You haven't done anything wrong, you know.”

“No. I can't forgive myself for letting you two follow me here. I should have expected the danger.”

“We had to get that mask, right? It's all right, Kyn.”

A small, angry corner of her mind hated him for it. That corner of her mind needed to shut up, she told herself. What choice had they really had?

“Right. The masks. I didn't tell you everything about that, did I? What the ghosts said. Ondolemar heard part of it. You might as well know, too.” Kynril rubbed the back of his ear. “So. The ancient Dragonborn. One of the first things she said to me.... She called me the son of her daughter, to... translate, roughly....”

It was harder to work out what he meant, in her tired mind. Then....

“Wait. She's your grandmother?”

Kynril shrugged. “So she said. I was sure she'd mistaken me for someone else. Or that I'd misheard. But... in Ragnvald, I heard her address someone about a Sillawe. That was my mother's name, remember? She told someone to take Sillawe and hide.

“Then, on the mountaintop... I think the Falmer she was speaking to was my grandfather. She asked him to go west, to take care of Sillawe, their daughter.”

Rachel felt herself start to grin. “You're... part human?”

“Please. I'm as much a human as you are mer.” Kynril rolled his eyes, but he was smiling too. “Well... yes. Perhaps I am. And I am Falmer. And Altmer. It is merely a strange, sickening irony that my Snow Elf grandfather married a _Nord_. The Dragonborn, of all Nords. One of the most important warrior hero figures in Nordic culture, which hates elves, as I shouldn't have to remind you. What in all hells did they see in each other?”

He was silent, for a few more minutes. Then....

“I wonder if she would have had any words for us, if we'd been able to get our hands on Morokei....”

–

...

Go into the Varlasel, they said. It'll be perfectly safe, they said.

The lords, it seemed, had not taken notice of the ancient crystal traps, or the restless dead, or the giant rats.

Thank the gods he was there too.

...

–

The next day was just as slow. They passed it by swapping stories.

There wasn't much to tell him about Markarth. There was nothing to tell him that she hadn't told him in Solitude. So many years in the warrens had faded into each other. And unfortunately, the same went for her entire apprenticeship with Ghorza.

Or so she thought. Gods! The weight of everything the Orc had done for her fell on her all at once. At least she would never have to know what became of her apprentice.

Kynril had nothing to say, but offered an arm while the tears passed.

“What else did you do, before Skyrim?” Rachel finally asked him.

“Well.... I don't think you want to hear about years of training. But... there is... more to be said of my time in Chorrol, if you wish to hear it.”

She nodded.

Kynril frowned. “It's not a happy story. Are you sure?”

And she immediately regretted her nod. “Only if you want to tell it, Kyn.”

He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. “Well.... My reassignment to Skyrim was intended to be a punishment. I'd neglected certain... duties in Chorrol. I... I had knowingly overlooked so many instances of heresy in the city. Let so many heretics slip away.”

He started to shiver.

“Are you all right, Kyn?”

He shook his head. “That little terror of Chorrol? Her parents were obvious, but... was I to take them from her? And eventually they fled the city too. I let them go.”

“Kyn, that's... pretty kind, actually. For... you know... Thalmor.”

“I let them leave Chorrol. I let a lot of people leave Chorrol. It... it went on for years. But... eventually my superiors.... They.... They found out. They caught a pair of Imperial men.” He stared at his knees. “They were executed. I was forced to watch. After... after that, they threatened me with the same fate.... They let me wait and dread for days and _days_ before they announced my transfer.”

Rachel recalled something. All of _that_ had happened only five years ago?

And... dear gods, what was she supposed to do for a crying mer? After some hesitation, she reached over to lay a hand on his shoulder.

Kynril wiped the corners of his eyes. “I was shocked. That Ondolemar was.... He.... I.... He didn't hold my record against me. He let me continue serving as a guard. He... he always was a good mer to me....”

“Yeah.... Really saved our butts, didn't he?”

Kynril nodded, but said nothing else. And a few minutes of pained silence settled over them.

“I miss that mer,” Rachel finally said. “Where do you think he is?”

“Somewhere safe, I hope....” Kynril shifted against the wall and crossed his arms tighter. “Listen. About what happened between us... in... Markarth. When you were brought into the barracks... when you decided to defy him.... I... I was terrified. I was so scared that it would all happen again. Ondolemar wasn't my last commander. I knew better. I'd seen him handle actual heretics before, with a light hand. And yet....”

“It's all right, Kyn. It didn't turn out that way.”

“With him? No. But look where we are now....”

–

...

The Thalmor asked too much. There was no way she could scout the Ayleid halls alone. Not with ghosts and things lurking everywhere.

“My lord, please, this one is beyond me. I'm not a fighter. I'm not _Thalmor_.”

Of course, it wasn't as though the armored mer called Solirion cared. The pity in his voice had to be false. “You're all I can spare right now, human. Take a blade with you if you must. Just see this done. The mages will watch your progress.”

“If they can spend time watching, can't they–”

“Go. Now.”

A familiar, welcome voice called out. “I'll accompany the human.”

“Kynril. Your own assignment–”

Kynril walked past Solirion, refusing to meet his eyes. “The wizard can wait for his translations. I will accept the consequences. Come along, Breton.”

...

–

As another day rolled around, they managed to find happier topics.

“Do you remember that thing Ondolemar asked us,” Kynril said, “when he caught us in the Talos shrine?”

“If it was a tryst? Yep. This is hardly a shrine of Talos, though.”

Kynril snorted. “I never told anyone the things I got up to in Chorrol. Sometimes in the chapel of Stendarr. But let's just say it involved other willing justiciars.”

Thalmor? Having relations? In a temple? _In the sight of the Imperial Divines?_ She tried to muffle her laughter.

“The things I learned about dicks,” Kynril went on. “And other parts, too. There was this one time when–”

Suddenly, the heavy curtain was pulled back, and two people were shoved into the room – first Ren'dar, then Ondolemar – both looking pale and stiff and bruised, both bound and in cold-iron. The curtain fell shut again, and they were left alone, startled and chilled.

“By Stendarr,” Kynril whispered. “You're alive.”

Ondolemar staggered to the wall and sat, wincing and groaning. Ren'dar followed and fell into his lap.

“Barely. And what have you been up to?” Ondolemar asked through a pained voice.

“I don't suppose you heard all that,” Kynril said.

Ren'dar shivered and rubbed his hands. “Khajiit heard nothing about dicks....”

Then came yet more words Rachel never would have thought to expect from Ondolemar. “We're talking about dicks? Carry on.”

“What happened to you?” Kynril asked. “Where were you? How did–”

“The College of Winterhold has fled. All of them. We freed them and covered their escape. The Thalmor are not pleased, but it is inconsequential.”

“And you're alive....”

“For now. The High Aldarch wants us to witness the glory of the heavens, or some nonsense like that before we die.”

“I suppose that's why we're still alive too....”

“So I guess.”

“Of course.... We get to find out what happens to my soul, don't we?”

Rachel looked at him. “Three masks have to count for something, right...?”

“I can only hope,” Kynril sighed. “But he must have noticed that. And yet... we have done more than I thought possible. My only regret is how this all ended.”

 


	36. The Dragon Breaks

The rest of that day passed far too quickly. There were apologies. Ren'dar and Kynril both confessed to small transgressions that Ondolemar laughed off. They recounted humorous stories from their time in Markarth. It had not been unheard of for Ren'dar and Kynril to play pranks in the barracks. And even some of the other guard had got in on it. Human lands were too bitter and boring for mer to be serious every waking minute of every day.

And then it was night, and they hated the fact that they had to sleep. But eventually Ondolemar and Ren'dar began to nod off. Kynril's shoulders quivered a little.... And Rachel waited for an unwanted sleep.

–

“Can't Lord Kynril or Ren'dar join me? I don't want to be caught alone down there....”

“We're already eliminated everything lurking in those halls. Your assignment will–”

–

And it was day, and there were bootsteps and shouts as Thalmor soldiers entered their small jail.

Kynril was unceremoniously hauled out and away.

The next minutes were a one long, drawn out blur. They were bound again and shoved out under the harsh late morning sky. Magnus was cold and his glare sharp. The air froze her chest.

They were led up several stone steps. Under the shade of a long hall in the mountain, where holes in the roof let in the outside light, and a balcony at the far end opened to the sky.

They passed by Canonreeve Elenwen. Rachel didn't know if there was a point in one last pleading look. She tried anyway, only to be met with a cool glare.

Kynril had been forced to kneel just before the balcony. He faced the inside of the hall. The feet of the High Aldarch, who had his back to the rest of them. Them.

But his eyes were turned upward, toward the face of their captor, his jaw clenched in a rare show of _anger...._

“I do not enjoy taking these measures, my child,” said the High Aldarch. “But your fear is too great to allow faith in the Aedra. Understand, you are to be a part of something magnificent, for the glory all of Mer.”

Rachel winced as her guard shoved her down. Her knees hit the floor painfully, some yards behind the High Aldarch. She chanced a look at Ren'dar, who strained his wrists against his cuffs, ears flat, teeth bared. Ondolemar's eyes were closed and his voice was nearly a whisper. But she heard a mention of Xarxes.

“W-What... c-could you p-p-possibly... give Mer... with... with my soul?” Kynril stammered. “I... I know... what you were doing.... You're... you're the s-same... as every dragon priest... you sent me to kill....”

“No, child. Today, we surpass them.”

“By killing me?! Slaying my companions?!”

“This is not an execution, Kynril.”

A glint of moonstone caught Rachel's eye. The masks had been arranged on the balcony.

“Nobody in this room has to die today,” the High Aldarch continued. “You are the Dragonborn. The very will and essence of Auri-El, incarnated in a mortal form. Today, you will know true Aldmeri glory. Today, we break the unholy connection between Men and The Dragon. Alduin will no longer threaten the Mundus. The figment that the Empire knows as Akatosh will fall.”

Fear cracked through Kynril's voice. “You can't _do_ that! The Alessians! They tried to.... You must know of the First Era's–”

He gasped then and fought to speak. His lips moved, but his tongue would not form words....

“The Alessians, in their folly, sought to destroy the true god of time,” said the High Aldarch. “We are here to free Auri-El from the taint of Man. And when we do, the petty lands of Mankind will know fear of the Aedra.”

And without further elaboration, or any warning, the High Aldarch raised his hands. Kynril collapsed on the floor as the masks behind him rose. In unison, every mask they'd gathered began to glow and hum with pure, ancient magicka....

Kynril struggled to rise. Then, a flash.... Brilliant light flared around him and something large emerged, screaming, unfurling great wings. It enveloped the High Aldarch and vanished. A second dragon soul followed.

It was a terrible sight to watch. And something, something definitely magical, kept her from getting up to stop it. To change. To tackle the damned High Aldarch off the balcony. To save the Dragonborn.

But as the Dragonborn writhed and shouted and clawed at the floor, something moved. Something had gone wrong, she could feel it, something was angry, everything was wrong, very wrong, and....

–

Cyrodiil was cold in the winter. Not as unbearably cold as Skyrim, not its mountains. But the chill that settled over the hills reached down even into the ancient Ayleid temple.

Rachel shivered under her robes and the weight of the bag she'd been given. Just gather the stones, she thought to herself. Her masters wanted welkynd stones. Once she'd gathered eight from the lower chambers, she could sit by the fire and eat.

She wished Kynril had been there. Him or Ren'dar. Her only friends in Cyrodiil. The only people she could trust in the entire country. She did not know what orders they have been given, but they couldn't come with her. Their company would have been welcome in the creepy ruins of the Ayleids' temple.

Gods, how she missed the elf. It wasn't often that Kynril could join her, but he and his sword were a comfort in the dark passages, when the watchful eyes of his superiors would not follow.

The relative darkness was unnerving. And what little light there was was even more so. What magics kept the Ayleids' artifacts lit for so long?

She reached out carefully, over the silver cup, and placed her bare hand on the last welkynd stone she needed. It was cut smooth, cold to the touch despite its glow. And yet the familiar warmth of magicka rested inside it. It was very old indeed.

She laid the stone gently in the bag with the others, gave the empty room another brief look, and turned to creep back up into the upper levels of the temple.

It was even colder than it had been when she left. Colder and quieter. Empty. The fires were gone and there was no sign they had ever been lit. No smells of stew or cooking game. No perfumes of lavender and Auridon flowers to hold the stench of earth and death at bay. The bedrolls were missing and even the officers' screened-off beds and desks were gone.

The heavy sack with her day's work, too, had vanished. Instead, there were welkynd stones sitting in their silver sconces, some at her level, some on high pillars or in chandeliers. Stones she knew she'd moved.

Her own voice was wrong; the Alinoran accent she'd settled into replaced by something perhaps more Colovian, as she called to anyone left who might be listening.

She wasn't supposed to be in an Ayleid ruin, she remembered.

But where she _was_ supposed to be, she didn't know. But... it had to involve Kynril and Ren'dar. The faces clearest in her memories, while the names and images of her Altmeri and Bosmeri lords began to blur and fade.

Then there was presence. New and familiar. Comforting and dreaded. She turned slowly to see who – what – it was.

He stood mere yards away, radiant, almost a beacon in the depths of the temple. They had never met. No, they shouldn't have. And yet she was sure of who the Altmer was.

Rachel quickly knelt and bowed low.

“Your humility is pleasing in the eyes of the gods, but it is not necessary here,” said the High Aldarch. “Raise your head, child of Stendarr. Look upon me.”

She sat up, but found herself unable to obey, and it was almost as difficult to speak.

“You are overwhelmed.” His words were too familiar. “I understand.”

“This isn't right,” Rachel said. “This can't be happening.”

“Oh? Come, dear child, tell me what troubles you. There is no concern too small for the attention of an aldarch. Especially if my petitioner is a humble servant of Mer.”

_Run_ , growled the voice of her mind. _Run! He is too strong!_

“We've met,” she said, as memories came trickling back. Memories of fear, of waiting in a cell with Kynril and Ren'dar. Pleading something with Kynril's superior. Being saved by.... “We've met, Your Eminence. You saved Kynril from First Emissary Elenwen. But... I've never been near the embassy. I couldn't have.... You never....”

She remembered it as if it had been only a week ago. Ondolemar had reassigned Kynril, sent him to Cyrodiil, sent her and Ren'dar along to serve him and the Aldmeri Dominion wherever they were needed. They had never been to the Thalmor Embassy. Never been north of Markarth.

And yet....

“Blessings of Auri-El upon you,” the High Aldarch spoke slowly. “Do not be alarmed. This is a sign. A sign that the Dragon has broken free of the tether.”

Pain rippled behind her eyes. She could see Kynril, _somewhere_ , thrashing against invisible bonds, crying in panic. Agony.

The voice of the High Aldarch snapped her back to the Ayleid ruins.

“The bonds of Time, ever twisting, braiding, and looping fall away.”

Kynril was smaller, somehow. The same body as ever, yet diminished and frail.

“It is a rare gift,” the High Aldarch continued, “for mortals to glimpse through these threads, to view a life that is and is not their own.”

And another High Aldarch stood over the weakening body of the Dragonborn, arms raised in prayer, chanting, not heeding the cries of the mer below him.

It was him. He had done something terrible. It was all him.

She turned her head back down toward the floor, and tried to remember how to leave the temple. Wondered how much faster she could run. If she could lose him.

He had captured them. Bound her and Ren'dar and Ondolemar. Made them _watch_ while underneath the cloudless skies....

Rachel thought quickly. Tried to tamp down growing panic. “To think, I have been graced by your presence twice. A human like me....”

“Mer,” the High Aldarch corrected, and she reeled. “Lessened in stature and appearance. So far from Auri-El, yet guided by the Aedra at merciful Stendarr's behest. Arrogant and forgetful, yet humbled by those remaining closest to the light of Auri-El. But always mer. Just like the Dunmer, who committed themselves to false gods. Just like the Orsimer, who followed the false shadow of Trinimac from Summerset. Just like that Khajiit you and your master cling to.”

It was even more staggering than what Ren'dar had told her once, as some other self sat under a blanket on the cold floor of the Thalmor embassy barracks. Half a mer, she could understand. But this....

“It is rare that a Breton is granted this knowledge.”

As the High Aldarch spoke, Rachel felt something solid and cold beneath her chin, and opened her eyes.

A sword, cast from malachite, ancient elven craft and well kept. The High Aldarch held it in his hand as easily as if it were a quill, and lifted the blade, forcing her head to tilt up.

His eyes were as cold as the room.

“It is an old secret,” he said. “One that often leaves Nirn with those who carry it.”

Rachel scrambled back, onto her feet, and began to back away from the High Aldarch. She cast Ironflesh, and felt it lifted immediately, without so much as a gesture from him.

“This sword has a long history, child of Stendarr. It once cut the souls of Cyrod slaves and Ayleid traitors alike from the bonds of their mortal vessels. Today, it shall do the same for you.”

She looked upon him, and remembered. This was the mer who had brought Kynril to the floor, silenced him without even a wave of his hand. The mer who walked into ancient, dangerous tombs and emerged looking as if he'd never entered.

There was no way to fight or win.

“Don't,” Rachel said, and tried to cast Ironflesh again. It was lifted again. She tried to gather lightning to her hands, but it was smothered as quickly as it snapped to life. The High Aldarch began to advance.

She was going to die. She was going to die alone, in a time that was not hers, and never see Ren'dar or Kynril again. And somewhere, they were going to be killed too. And the High Aldarch, the High Aldarch of all people.... He was going to kill her. Her and everyone.

“Mercy....” She raised her arms in front of her chest, knowing too well they would not block a sword, hoping, praying that Stendarr would manifest in the High Aldarch. “Please, please...!”

“Mercy?” repeated the High Aldarch. “I could grant you the mercy of a quick death. I could refrain from taking your soul, and let it pass to Aetherius. That too would be a mercy, and so would taking your life now, before you have to suffer another moment of fear. Or... do you seek to keep your life?”

“Yes. Yes, please....” But she did not dare to put hope in what he was offering. The words stuck in her throat, the temple spun around her. Her heart beat hard against her chest, her ribs were going to break....

“But your time on Nirn is over, child. You will go to Aetherius with the full blessings of the Aedra.”

Speaking was impossible....

“Kneel now, and bow your head. You will feel nothing but the embrace of your ancestors.”

She was barely aware of shrinking as the High Aldarch drew nearer. And then, she was large. Larger. Taller than him, her own shoulders over his head.

The High Aldarch paused. He did not cower or attack suddenly. He froze, and only the faint scent of sweat betrayed his own _fear_.

Rachel hesitated, and snarled down at the mer who had been feet away from taking her head, and if he was as dishonest and cruel as he had been before, her soul.

He stared back, impassive.

_STOP HIM. BREAK HIM, NOW!_

Her paw, massive and clawed, met something tough as dragon scales.

And yet the High Aldarch flew, landing in a heap of flesh and robes across the great antechamber.

She felt a rush of pride and sadness. It was just as Kynril had said, so long ago in Whiterun as he tested the strength of her Oakflesh. The best mage armor could stop the edge of a blade, but never the full impact of a blow.

And that was true even for a High Aldarch.

The High Aldarch, who rose, long pale hair out of place. His right arm twisted horribly, hand unable to grasp anything, let alone a sword. His face twisted in pain. Pain just as elven, just as _mortal_ as anything she had ever seen on Kynril's face, or felt for herself.

And then he was healed, in a flash of white light.

“You defy the gods, Breton!” The High Aldarch's voice betrayed a mortal rage in a mortal throat. “Repent, or be struck down!”

“ **No! No, you.... You SHUT UP!”**

The High Aldarch picked up his sword again.

“ **You were going to kill me anyway!”** The words were her own, in a throat far too large, and they had no place in an Ayleid ruin, and she had no right to shout them at the High Aldarch. And yet, she had to. Whatever happened next, no matter how badly it ended, he wasn't going to get away with it. Not without hearing it from her. **“Sheor take you! I'll... I'll bite you if you try it again!”**

The High Aldarch drew nearer, dirtied silken robes rippling in the welkynd lights.

“ **I'll break your arm a hundred times! I'll destroy it! There won't be anything left to heal!”**

And she felt Nirn pull on her. One lupine knee crashed to the floor, and she struggled to stay upright. Before her, the High Aldarch's magicka poured into the room.... She braced herself with one hand, and prepared to swipe with her left....

A strange, unlikely hope flickered into her mind.

“ **If you're really from the other Time, I'll just kill you here! You'll never go back! Die with me! I'll drag you to Hircine myself!”**

The High Aldarch clenched his fist. She couldn't stay up, couldn't rise again. Only watch, helpless, as the ancient Ayleid sword was raised high over her body.

And then there was sky. Clear sky.

Her damp robes stuck to her. She was cold. And Ren'dar was screaming, hissing somewhere above her.

Meri voices panicking, boots fleeing....

Something large and bronze swept overhead, spewing a storm of ice, shrieking in a rage for all of Skyrim to hear.


	37. Dragonborn

She was flying too. Flying just like Kynril. Kynril, who was a dragon, somewhere. That much was obvious.

_**Rachel! How did you get here?** _

She realized she could not move, or blink. Only stare through large eyes that were not her own. Kynril's eyes.

Had he somehow eaten _her_ soul?

_**Of course not! Oh, oh no. You can't be. You can't be dead!** _

A roar, and a shower of frost. It glimmered in the sunlight.

It didn't matter now. Not anymore. The High Aldarch had gone too far. He was too dangerous. He had to die. For this. For everything else. Before he reached anyone else. Never again....

_**But... Ren'dar.... Ondolemar....** _

If they were smart, and they _were_ , they'd get out of the way!

Kynril made a sharp turn downward and hurtled for the balcony, spewing pure cold and shards of ice ahead of him.

But nobody was there.

They were answered with an ear-rending shriek. Kynril whirled in the air, turned his scaly head, and Rachel felt his surge of terror.

The largest dragon they had ever seen, a beast with black and gold wings, white underside, with spines longer than greatswords, and fierce yellow eyes.

What in Oblivion?

_**I saw it. Something went wrong with the masks. So many souls came out. And I turned into this. And....** _

A torrent of fire and light. Kynril ducked and sped toward the ground. The thing that was somehow the High Aldarch and Alduin followed them, cutting stone with his belly as Kynril pulled out of the dive.

A blast. In the corner of their vision, Ren'dar had drawn his bow. They turned. Arrows exploded against the dragon's side and wings, while Ondolemar followed with his own barrage of magic and wards. The rest of the Thalmor were fleeing.

The High Aldarch opened his maw.

_**NO!** _

Kynril's teeth met the thick plates of his neck, and the High Aldarch roared and thrashed. Ondolemar took Ren'dar and retreated somewhere just out of sight.

Claws and spikes scraped at his belly, and Kynril relented, retreated to a safer distance....

Behind them, the High Aldarch drew breath. And a fireball caught up with them.

Rachel could not feel his pain, but Kynril screamed and faltered in the air. But he couldn't give in so easily....

_**FO KRAH DIIN!** _

His breath was a snowstorm, one that the High Aldarch could not escape. He was overtaken by frost and shards of ice. Though he spiraled higher into the skies and gave a mighty bellow, light flashed through _tears_ in his wings....

On it went. They clashed and bit and clawed in the air, pausing only to unleash a hellish breath. And while the other dragon suffered wounds, nothing slowed him, nothing dulled the ferocity of his assault.

In one gut-wrenching instant, the High Aldarch's blasts engulfed figures below....

_Ugh. He thought he heard the wings of Khenarthi.... But this is a giant lizard!_

_**Damn it, Ren'dar! Not you too!** _

Ondolemar's scream was almost missed. And a new bombardment of fire and ice followed.

_End it quickly, Ja'Khajiit. He cannot stand to watch any more of this._

_**How am I supposed to kill this thing? Alduin is a god! But... but....** _

Kynril's mind worked quickly.

_**A mortal and a god? Then... then that means...?** _

And Rachel knew what his answer to that was before he opened his mouth.

His Voice was Time. Its passage. The inevitable sundering of soul and body known by all mortalkind. The brilliance of Aetherius.

Light burst forth from the High Aldarch's body. And the terrible dragon fell. His body became a shower of white and gold lights.....

Smaller figures hastened on the ground....

The sky.... The sky was so bright and clear....

Vision began to fade.

_**Are you still with me?** _

_**It is... done... The High... no... Varlaris of Alinor.... He... he is....** _

…

…

…

–

…

…

…

“Indaenir. I mean... Silvenar. I just need a minute of your time. Please.”

“Have we met...? Oh! I remember you! One of Ayrenn's, if I'm not mistaken? But I thought you and your friend were leaving us for Daggerfall.”

“Sadly. There are things I need to know. Things about other Bretons. I don't think staying under the wings of the Dominion can teach me that.”

“Then what do you need of me?”

“I... I heard you can cure werewolves?”

“I see. Oh, you poor thing....”

“Is it true?”

“I might be able to ease your burden. But I'm afraid the full extent of Y'ffre's power can only be felt by Bosmer.”

“Am I doomed, them? Am I condemned to Hircine's grounds when I die?”

“Not if I have a say it in. Come here, friend. This will be brief and painless.”

A warm green light washed over her.

“Silvenar? What happened?”

“You remain a werewolf, but the bonds between you and Oblivion are no more. The wolf is now of the Green, beyond Hircine's whims. Whether you take the form of a Breton or beast, your mind will be your own, and your body will be yours to control. By Y'ffre's grace, you and all your descendants will share in this blessing.”

…

…

…

…

…

A horn – a Nordic war horn – sounded in the distance.

There was no more time to waste.

The abandoned house was dark. A scamp hurried out of her reach, a _kyn_ , a _kyn_ of all beings guarded the narrow tunnel.

There he was, praying before a horrible altar, one of rusted, twisted iron. And... no. Somebody – another Reachman it seemed – had crumpled to the floor of a spiked cage before him.

“Madanach! The Stormcloaks are at our gates! There are daedra in the streets! What in Oblivion have you _done_?”

The wolf, the hand of the Green, it was angry. So angry. Its bared fangs matched the fear in her heart. The new hatred for the man before her.

“You and that knife-eared whelp have kept us here long enough. It's time the Nords learned fear of the gods and fled these lands once and for all.”

“You would deal with Molag Bal? You would give our city to the god of _brutality_?”

“I'm saving our city! In just a few hours, every Stormcloak in a hundred miles will lie dead! No force in the Empire will retake these mountains!”

“Thrice-damned spawn of a...! Didn't you hear me earlier? That Sheor-cursed Nord is loose again! He could–”

The house quaked, shaking dirt and pebbles from the newly dug ceiling.

“Let the Stormcloak brat come! He'll be the first to submit to the will of Molag Bal!”

“So be it. Rot in this pit. May the Light never grace your mortal eyes again.”

“Shut your mouth, take your elf, and _run_.”

There was no point in killing him. She left, the breath of Y'ffre speeding her footsteps.

…

…

…

…

…

It was a good day out. The rain had stopped. It was the perfect day to chase the goats, see how many leaves and pretty flowers she could throw on them. Did goats like flowers? Maybe she should feed the goats flowers?

But the grown-ups. They were mad, and scared.

“Branhucar!”

There was da, calling her name. He sounded scared too. And before she could move, he lifted her in his arms.

“Bran! We need to go. It's not safe here, little bird.”

People were running. The important lady with the feathers and claws went the other way.

But someone else should have been there.

“Mama?!”

“Your mother has to protect us. It'll be all right, child....”

There was a loud howl in the distance. The biggest, meanest howl she'd ever heard....

…

…

…

–

A floor made of clouds that her feet could not touch. All around, a blue sky.

Rachel was sure that she existed. But she was also sure that she felt perfectly fine without needing to draw breath, and the air was nothing but a comfortable warmth.

Was this Aetherius?

Something small and dark streaked across the air. It was a cat. A brown cat with black stripes and knowing green eyes.

“Hey there, little one,” Rachel knelt to scratch its ears. It stared. “Poor thing, you must be dead like me? Did you get caught in that mess at the Labyrinthian too?”

The cat raised one paw and pushed her hand away. And while it did not open its mouth, a familiar voice rang out from where it stood.

“How dare you insult Ren'dar! He is not some house cat or a kitten!”

“Ren'dar? What in hells?”

“But yes. Ren'dar is fairly certain he is finally dead.” Apparently, he sensed her question. “You are wondering why Ren'dar is small and adorable, yes? You learned that not all Khajiit are Cathay, the ones that walk on two legs, with feet like mer. Some Khajiit look like this.”

“Oh. I see. I'm... uh... I'm... sorry for the insult, Ren'dar....”

Ren'dar's ears flicked, and he flexed his little shoulders in a very un-catlike shrug.

“The body of Khajiit is determined by the moons under which they are born. Do you remember my tale? The rumors that the Thalmor stole the moons away and put them back to frighten Khajiit? Whatever the truth, there were consequences. So many Khajiit began to grow strangely, into bodies that did not match their moons. Many Khajiit do not look entirely like a single kind of Khajiit, and so many are shunned. Ren'dar was lucky, that he, an Alfiq, looked like a common Cathay. Only those who know his birth moons know the truth. Those such as... the beloved, sleek Ondolemar....”

Ren'dar's mouth opened, revealing tiny, pointed teeth. “Enough of that sadness. He sees you are not in the Hunting Grounds!”

“Apparently one of my ancestors got some help from someone called the Silvenar a long time ago,” Rachel told him. “My soul never belonged to Hircine. Y'ffre's been protecting it this whole time!”

“Truly? Ha! Perhaps the elfy tree god is good for something after all. And where is Kynril? Have you seen him?”

–

There was a roar overheard. A long shadow moved across the clouds. And Rachel saw the bronze body of a large, bird-like dragon descend, scales and feathers glinting in the sun. The dragon hit the not-ground and burst into hundreds of brilliant lights, leaving Kynril to pick himself up when they faded.

Rachel and Ren'dar ran to meet him. And despite his entire ordeal, he looked just the same as he had in life. Warm brown skin, bright green eyes, thick white hair that fell past his shoulders now. A beard. He'd forgotten to shave for so long. And Aetherius had let him keep his Thalmor robes.

At first, his mouth cracked into a wide smile at the sight of them. But then his face fell, and he took in their surroundings.

“That could have gone better,” Kynril said. “I am sure my soul is free. But... I must be dead now. And I see that you did not escape....”

The sky darkened, and a more terrible roar filled the air.

Rachel looked up, and started to pray that what she saw wasn't _real_. The massive, spiked, nearly Daedric form of the dragon Alduin landed next to them, and addressed Kynril.

“ _ **DOVAHKIIN.... FAHLIIL.... YOU HAVE SERVED WELL.”**_

Even dead, Kynril began to shake. “Wh...what... exactly did I... accomplish for you?”

“ _ **THE USURPER IS DEAD. HIS SOUL IS MINE. HIS DEEDS OPENED THE GATE TO COUNTLESS TIMES. I HAVE DEVOURED INFINITE STRAYING WORLDS. EACH TO RETURN TO ITS TRUE COURSE. AND NOW THE RESTORATION OF TIME IS NIGH.”**_

“So... wait... you're saying that... that the prophecies... that the Nord legends....”

“ _ **THE SPAWN OF LORKHAN KNOW ONLY THE PRESENT AND THE END. THEY FEAR THAT WHICH CANNOT BE CONTROLLED. I AM TIME. I AM DEATH. I AM REBIRTH. THROUGH THE FEAR OF MEN, I AM THE FIRST BORNE OF AURI-EL!”**_

He unfurled his black wings against the sky.

“That is... very impressive, great Alduin. I... uh... I've no words suitable to address a god.”

“ _ **YOUR WORSHIP IS NOT REQUIRED. THE TERROR OF MORTALS SUSTAINS ME.”**_

“We are terrified, I assure you.”

“Yes. Very terrified,” Rachel added.

“Shaking in our socks,” said Ren'dar.

“ _ **MY WORK IS DONE,”**_ said Alduin. **_“WHEN THE DRAGON BREAKS AGAIN, I SHALL RETURN.”_**

And without another word, or another horrific shriek, or even a threat to devour them, Alduin flew away, disappearing somewhere high above their heads.


	38. The Thief's Ascension

It was cold. And damp. The air froze her lungs and bit at her face. Rachel shivered and rolled over to curl on her side, and felt a rush of warmth. She opened her eyes.

Oh. They were outside. Somehow. The sky was a vivid blue. There was a bit of snow beneath her. And the weathered buildings of the old Nordic city came into sharper focus. Not the inside of the temple, then....

She pushed herself up, on arms stronger and refreshed, and sat. The ground was still cold, through her layers of trouser and robe, but it was better than lying on it....

Something caught her eye. Something just in the corner of her vision, something radiant against the gray rocks of the mountain. She raised her head to see the great dragon, body long enough to encircle a small house, gold scales and wings glinting in the light of Magnus, underbelly not at all shadowed, for the entire body was aglow from snout to tail.

Auri-El watched from his perch on the boulders. And she remained still. It was one thing to attempt to pray to Auri-El. It was another to see a dragon. But for Auri-El to appear, on Nirn? In the scales? So close? How _did_ one greet an Aedra...?

The Dragon turned his head. Rachel followed his gaze to see Kynril awake and sitting up, staring back at Auri-El with some cross between shock and reverence. Ren'dar, who'd returned to his typical form, looked on in silence from his other side.

She was not sure what words Auri-El spoke, or how Kynril answered. But the relief in the mer's eyes was clear. And, in a gesture that she had not expected from a god, Auri-El leaned closer and allowed him to embrace his snout.

And then, as suddenly as the Dragon had appeared, he departed from them. Auri-El ascended, coiling and spiraling up into the skies.

Kynril watched until the Dragon was out of sight. Then he lowered his head at last, let out a breath held a moment too long. And he spoke again, in a low whisper.

“Sunnabe ni Auri-El, nou–”

Before he made it far into his prayer, a loud cry rose behind them.

“Kyn!”

Kynril jerked his head up, then winced and rubbed his neck.

Rachel saw a blur a brown cloth. Someone in a robe dropped to his knees next to the startled Dragonborn, and pulled him into a tight hug. A lock of blond hair fell out of his hood.

A second person – a very tall, armored, familiar woman – approached, and simply stood there, observing. Rachel quickly realized who she was looking at. The ancient Dragonborn, somehow in a mortal body, with living flesh and blood and bone. And there was no trace of age in her brown hair or steel eyes or pale skin. And her armor – fur and steel with strange blue-glass ornamentation – had no sign of wear.

On Kynril's other side, Ren'dar had embraced a kneeling Ondolemar, who.... Gods, no. It had seemed impossible that the mer would ever shed a tear. But he pulled away and wiped an eye while Ren'dar gave him a squeeze on his shoulder.

Kynril broke the quiet again. “Father.... I... I thought you were in Riften....”

“I left.... The Thalmor presence became too dangerous.” Kyndoril's voice started to waver. “But... it would seem I've been caught at last, wouldn't it?”

“What? Have they seen you? You could hide here, you could–”

“My dear child....”

Kynril raised his head and looked over his father's shoulder. “Oh... oh gods....”

Rachel followed Kynril's eyes, as the sound of boots... _many pairs_ of boots on snow and stone drew nearer. A black-robed figure stopped only yards away.

Oh, yes. Elenwen had been there. Elenwen, and rest of the Thalmor host on the mountain. The three rows of armored mer gleaming in the sunlight. The void-black silks and leather and bright gilt of the wizards standing nearby.

Elenwen stared down at her, at Ren'dar, at Kynril... at Ondolemar and Kyndoril kneeling beside them... at the ancient Dragonborn, who stood and watched.

It seemed pointless to beg now. What hope was there when they'd slain one of the highest of Mer? Even Kynril merely sat there, wordless.

Elenwen regarded Ondolemar. He sighed and sank into a deep bow.

“Canonreeve, I–”

“Your pets have passed the end of my tolerance,” said Elenwen. “As have you and the former Kinlord of Luxurene. By the law of Alinor and the Aldmeri Dominion, it is my solemn duty to sentence you all to death.”

“No!” Kyndoril yelped, and started to his feet, as if to fight. “I will not allow–”

“However....”

Kyndoril froze, one knee still on the snow.

Elenwen's expression was difficult to determine, even as she stepped closer. “The traitorous justiciar and his companions died, not even one hour ago. And it cannot be denied that Auri-El saw fit to restore their lives.” A small _smile_ appeared. “Who am I to defy the will of Auri-El?”

And then she turned to her company. “You're dismissed. Return to camp. I will follow shortly.”

Rachel watched in disbelief as the menacing wall of moonstone and gold turned and walked away, leaving them very alone with Elenwen. A muffled flop – Kyndoril had collapsed onto his backside.

“And... Ondolemar and my father?” Kynril croaked. “Canonreeve?”

“I shall stay my hand, for a time. In light of today's events... I grant eight days. Eight days to run. Eight days for me to decide that Ondolemar perished in Markarth and the disgraced lord died over thirty years ago.”

Ondolemar finally spoke again. “I... do not have the words to thank you for your mercy.”

“Truly? And I thought I'd never hear the end of your groveling..... As for you, Dragonborn.”

Kynril looked up. “Canonreeve?”

“I offer you a chance to return to service. You will be promoted and permitted to keep your assigned servants. Do you accept?”

Kynril fidgeted. And fingered the braid in his hair. And stared at the ground. “I... I couldn't simply.... That is a generous offer.... But... no.”

Ondolemar tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you certain? To accept would mean the forgiveness of the Thalmor. Protection for my former servants.”

Kynril sighed, then turned to Ren'dar. “Do _you_ want to go back to the Thalmor?”

Ren'dar's ears flattened, and he turned to bare his teeth at Elenwen. “Khajiit stays with Ondolemar and does not serve kitten murderers.”

Elenwen was not impressed. “And I thought we'd tamed you. But do not think your treason is our loss.”

“Why should it be? What is one cat to the Thalmor?”

“Useful or dead.”

Ren'dar bristled, but said nothing else.

Kynril turned to Rachel. “And you?”

“I...,” she hesitated and gripped the hem of her robe with trembling fingers.

What sort of question was that? An offer to remain under... the _Thalmor_?

Oh no. Not again. Never again.

 _Why_ had she ever given her life to them in the first place?

What _business_ did she have in the middle of some elven dispute on some godsforsaken mountain?

“The Silver-Bloods... the Empire... they would have had me killed,” she said, eyeing the ground, the ice running through the cracks in its stonework. “I can't go back to Markarth. But I'm... I'm so tired of all of this Thalmor business....”

A hand reached out to pat her arm. Kynril's voice was soft and warm, as a spring wind for her ears and nerves. “It's up to you. And it sounds like you don't want to return either.”

“Yeah.... I... I don't.”

“You all heard her,” Kynril said. “I will not drag her back into this. I don't even care for it myself.”

“A pity,” said Elenwen. “Skyrim has fallen into discord and needs guidance. A mer of your abilities could have been a fine asset. And I cannot guarantee protection for any of you without your cooperation.”

“Forgive me, Canonreeve, but as you once told me, I cannot offer much that a drunken Nord could not accomplish. And while I cannot speak for her, this other Dragonborn might be more what you're looking for.”

The ancient Dragonborn, who'd stood forgotten in the elven drama, gave a harsh short laugh. “Not the mer I expected to work with, but we'll see. You from High Rock, Canonreeve Elenwen?”

Elenwen stiffened. “No. Another Dragonborn, you say?”

“But for Xarxes' sake, she ought to be briefed,” Kynril added. “It's been thousands of years. The political climate of Skyrim is drastically different today.”

“I noticed,” said the ancient Dragonborn. “Before I died this country was run entirely by Nords!”

“Okay, so... that hasn't really changed.”

“Shit, really? Oh, I had a feeling I died for naught....”

Rachel bit her lip, then beckoned for Ondolemar to come closer. When he'd moved, she leaned next to him and whispered, “Is this really happening, or am I just magicked and thinking hopeful thoughts before we all die?”

“It's real,” Ondolemar muttered. “We are being spared... at least this day.”

“Elenwen can _do_ that?”

“The _Canonreeve_ of Solitude can do whatever she damn well pleases until she receives further orders from the Thalmor Council or His Majesty the High King.”

“And how long could that take?”

“By Stendarr, Breton!” Ondolemar hissed. “This is not the time or place to question this mercy!”

Elenwen and the ancient Dragonborn were already deep in discussion. The latter folded her arms.

“Well! I can see why you'd hate this Talos. Besides, we Nords have better heroes. Ancients who carved their own place in our history, bringing honor and glory to us all....”

Kynril's brow wrinkled. “Oh, please. You can't mean Ysgramor.”

The ancient Dragonborn snarled and turned on her heel to face him. “That filthy rotting skeever's arse? Of course not! How could I face your grandfather?”

–

The skies were still clear of clouds that night. Aetherial lights glowed above, tapestries of green and red. Rachel meekly returned her dirtied plate to cook, then started her long walk back to the tiny Nord hut.

Eight days. That was the time they were given. If the Dragonborn and his friends would not serve the Thalmor, then that was all Elenwen could offer them. It would be plenty of time to leave her sight and run.

Until then, the Thalmor who remained in the ruins of the Labyrinthian were ordered to let them be. It was surreal, to walk among them, to go to them for meals. To draw water and wine from the same barrels as them, to take spiced meat and cheese and frozen fruit from the same stores. To listen to talk of war, of the Dominion's future conquest of Hjaalmarch and the Reach and Whiterun. To hear elven voices in song now and then – exciting ballads, an old Dominion shanty, and even some bawdy lyrics with innuendo hidden in references to the shores and forests of western Alinor. To hear whispers about the Aedra, to see nothing worse than surprise in the eyes of the mer who looked on her. To be ignored as she left them to return to her bedroll.

Kynril – who had finally shed his Thalmor robe – and his father and the ancient Dragonborn were already in the little room, seated around the fire, in conversation. Ren'dar had stretched out across Ondolemar's lap, and neither were immersed in the talk. Rachel sat between Kynril and Ren'dar. Exactly where she belonged.

It was soon obvious what they were discussing. The Aldmeri Dominion's claim to Skyrim.

“None of this is your fault, child,” said the ancient Dragonborn. “Skyrim made its own troubles. Just because you are Dovahkiin doesn't mean it's your duty to fix them.”

He merely nodded. “That suits me. I've... had far too much of this place. And Skyrim doesn't want some elf. But... it would be cruel to turn my back. And are you sure you want to worry about this?”

“I don't like the sound of this Ulfric Stormcloak. And gods know someone has to step in before Summerset and Skyrim destroy each other. But I won't have my daughter's only child get killed again. Take your Canonreeve's offer and run. Do not die in your heroics, as I once did.”

“What _happened_ to you, grandmother?”

The ancient Dragonborn shrugged. “I led many elves away from the blades of the enemy. I watched them flee to lands south and west of Skyrim. I sent my own husband and daughter away, so they would be safe. And... I gave part of my power to the dragon priests, to give them strength for the battles to come.”

“And then...?”

“And then I took a death blow right here, in Bromjunaar, at the blade of some rebel king. And I did not feel the peace of Aetherius, since I could not leave as long as my priests kept me.”

“That's... quite a story,” Kynril said.

“And it feels good to tell it at last. I do not think the bards cared. If you asked my enemies in my day, I was a false Dovahkiin, the champion of Alduin and the wretched elves.”

“A deed worthy of Trinimac,” Kyndoril pointed out, smoothing his robes.

“So Morilion would have said. And I still can't believe my daughter picked a little skeever like you.”

“Honored mother, please....”

“What does she mean?” Rachel asked Kynril.

He gave a weak smile. “Oh, you missed the confession when you were outside. Apparently, two-hundred years ago, my father was a notorious thief.”

“ _Noble_ thief,” Kyndoril corrected them, with a smirk. “Best in Cyrodiil.”

“And most pathetic when caught,” Ondolemar added.

Kyndoril's grin widened. “Only before a dutiful and formidable mer such as yourself, o' justiciar.”

Cyrodiil. Memories of darkness, of blue light on white stone, of another mer in robes returned. Rachel steadied her hands on her mug and took a long sip from her mead.

“Are you all right?” Kynril asked.

“I was there, when... when the Dragon broke earlier,” she told him. “And I think I was there before then? I thought it was just weird dreams. But... I was somewhere in Cyrodiil. Some Ayleid temple, somewhere. We'd... we'd been in Cyrodiil for _months._ ”

Kynril's eyes lit with recognition. “Then... you, as well...?”

“So, you saw it too?”

He cast an uneasy look at the floor again. “I doubted it all, until now. Oh, there will be no sleep for me tonight....”

“And... are we still going there?”

“Pardon?”

She felt several sets of eyes on her, and tried to ignore them. “You mentioned fleeing south, toward Bruma.”

Ondolemar spoke up. “I would advise against that. The Dominion plans to bring war back to the heart of Tamriel. And now that Skyrim is lawfully Dominion land, it would be folly to pretend that any empire remains. It is only a matter of time before the Colovian west is overwhelmed again.”

“I see....”

“However, High Rock, while occupied by our diplomatic forces, is less likely to become a center of open war. And you may find it pleasant even at this bleak time of the year.”

Kynril sighed and sat back. “And despite all this counsel, it still seems wrong to run away.”

“Don't think of it as cowardice,” Ondolemar told him. “Consider this a well-earned vacation. And if I ever believe I need your aid, I will find a way to send word. Does that satisfy your conscience?”

Kynril hesitated, but it was clear. His mind was made up. “Very well. Ren'dar? Or... shall I call you Ren'dro now?”

Ren'dar laughed. “He will accept your flattery, cub. But he will stay with Ondolemar now. May bright moons light your path.”

“Just us, then?” Kynril asked. “If you... really are sure you want to go, Rachel?”

“ _Yes_ , I'll go with you,” she said. “Just like we imagined once, isn't it?”

At that moment, Kyndoril leaned forward. “If you'll indulge your old mer? I will not hinder you with my presence, unless you wish for my company. But I really must remove myself from Skyrim. And I think I know a good way to go west.”

“Stars above!” Kynril exclaimed. “Come with us. We'll leave at first light.”

–

The Karth bay was cold at night, but their vessel was there. Kyndoril raised his lantern. The ship was huge, gleaming with crystal ornaments set in the wood. Its sails would have been bright white and gold during the day. And at night, it was watched over by heavily armored Khajiit.

“I request a meeting with the captain,” Kynril said to the guard.

“Captain's busy.”

Kyndoril stepped forward. “Please, tell your captain that the fox has dug up the sunflowers, but would like to come inside.”

The guard stared at him for a long moment, then turned and approached the ship's cabin. He delivered the message in a low voice. And then he swiftly retreated.

A tall figure emerged. Long, straw-colored hair gleamed in the moonlight. One eye was patched. A heavy-looking bandolier was buckled across a long, quilted coat. And, most alarming of all, was the subdued air of ancient and deadly magic.

And then she, the most _intimidating_ Altmer Rachel had ever seen, crossed the deck in but a few strides, casting a light to see who had _dared...._

She stopped. And her expression softened.

“Auri-El's scales...,” she whispered. “You're still alive.”

“I am.” Kyndoril bowed his head. “I need your help again. And I thought you might like to meet one of your grandsons.”

She turned to Kynril, whose mouth had fallen open in some mix of shock and fear. “You?” he sputtered. “ _You're_ Kinlady Estivel?”

Rachel recognized the face. It had been so long ago, in a dream. A nightmare of an island, an exaggeration of what awaited should she go. An Altmeri woman with a Khajiiti lover, who had greeted them before the city went to Oblivion.

The dreaded Pirate Queen of the Eltheric laughed, and ushered them into her cabin to plan a course west.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn's adventures in Skyrim end here.
> 
> But next week, we begin a visit to his past, from his early childhood, to the night he learned of his identity as Dragonborn.
> 
> This story has a cousin: Foe-Tongue, by BetterBeMeta. You might have noticed if you've already been following both. While the stories take place in alternate timelines, they share the same universe and the very same past. Foe-Tongue is pretty exciting, it includes another examination of the Thalmor and Nord culture, it explores certain areas of Skyrim not touched in Kynril's tale, and it also revolves around a human and mer traveling together. It is definitely worth a read if you have the time.


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